


The Lost Prince

by PearlsValeMel



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Desert, F/M, Historical AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-03-06 12:14:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 75,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13411053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PearlsValeMel/pseuds/PearlsValeMel
Summary: Under the cruel sun of the desert, an exiled tribe fights to survive, a lost prince returns to seek revenge and a beautiful princess accepts a fake marriage for the world's sake.He wants power, she wants freedom. They'll write their own destiny together.A totally inaccurate historical AU inspired by the talented Stupidoomdoodles, too many Bollywood movies and a lot of Hindi/Persian music.





	1. Prologue (Away away)

 

The setting sun traced long shadows on the sand of the desert. The silhouette of the city of Capsalis gleamed in the orange light, shining like a jewel in the middle of the green oasis. Two figures rode their horses in the distance, slowly approaching the city. With their heavy and crimson robes, their faces covered by a turban except for their eyes, they stood out from the crowd and the candid outline of the buildings. Covered in their rich and embroidered cloaks, the two men entered the city, headed towards the royal palace. People stared, accompanying the solemn procession through the maze of streets, markets and temples, to the paved floor of the main forum, where scientists and sages from all over the Mediterranean sea met and exchanged ideas and theories. The pair halted at the entrance of the royal palace and the two men dismounted from their horses. Through the thick cloth of the turban, two pairs of black eyes fixed themselves on the soldiers that guarded the entrance of the palace.

“My Lords, you can't enter with your swords”, said one of the guards, pointing to the hilt of two heavy scimitars, encrusted with gold and ivory, that peeked from the men's cloaks. The first one snorted, adding with a chilly voice: “If I wanted to harm King Barif, I would have already conquered this puny city with my army. Move aside”.

The guards, stiffened.

“My lord, with all my respect...”

“Let them in, general. We have nothing to fear from our friends of the Sayan tribe”, assured a voice through the gates. King Barif stood smiling at the top of a long marble staircase, his wife Buni at his side. “And maybe, when the times will come,” he continued, “we well be even something more than friends and allies, am I right sire Vegeta?”

King Vegeta IV unfolded his crimson turban, revealing a severe countenance, his lips a thin line. He stroked his beard, annoyed, while joining the king.

“You will be more reserved of our plans, old fool. Every stone here has ears and yours is a big mouth.”

King Barif chuckled, embracing the regent of all Sayans and the two men grasped one another forearms in sign of peace.

“I'm happy to see you, that's all. How did your voyage go? You must be tired. Let my maids escort you and your son to your rooms...”

King Vegeta shook his head.

“I'd prefer to settle the matter now and be gone at the first lights of dawn. As I said, Frieza's spies are everywhere, and we can't be seen here”.

Barif looked at the other man, his face still hidden.

“Is this…?”

“Yes. So you understand discretion is mandatory.”

The king of Capsalis stroked his mustaches, nodding in resignation.

“No one can make a Sayan change his mind. Very well. Darling, show our guests the way, please”.

Queen Buni smiled at the younger of the two men, and grabbed his arm. “You must be the young prince. We are so happy for your return. Oh, I bet you're very handsome too… My daughters will be so pleased to meet you!”

The prince, his face still covered by the turban, remained silent, his eyes dark and unreadable as the ones of his father.

 

 

The parlor was empty, except for the three men and queen Buni. The snowy marble of the columns shined in the orange light of the dying sunset, a stark contrast with the blues and turquoises of the decorations that adorned the walls of the dome, and the calming sound of a near fountain. In the center of the room sat king Barif, his trademark smile still plastered on his face, unlike the expression of his counterpart.

“Cheer up, my friend! After all we're here to celebrate the birth of a new family!”

King Vegeta coughed. “An alliance, forged by the union of our clans and reigns...”

“A marriage!”, cheered queen Buni, winking to the young prince, that sat at the right of his father. Her future son-in-law was not as thrilled, for he remained silent. King Barif, instead, smiled even more.

“Well then, have you already chosen one of our daughters? Speak, hurry, so I can give the lucky one the great news!”

King Vegeta smirked: “Yes, we have chosen indeed. We want Princess Bulma”

The smile of king Barif dropped instantly, as the temperature of the room. Queen Buni let out a gasp, her sweet features frozen in shock.

“My friend... that's not possible and you know it.” said king Barif. “Bulma was already promised to the duke Yamcha before Frieza claimed her. We have tried to reject his request but...”

King Vegeta didn't let him finish: “I know. I also know what it means to nearly lose a son to the Cold Empire." he said, his voice barely faltering. "And I'm here to offer you my help in that matter. Bind your daughter to the Sayan Tribe, and we’ll snatch her away from Frieza’s hands.”

“Oh, that's so valiant of you. Saving the damsel in distress and with a timing so perfect!”

Everybody in the room turned as a beautiful woman with the hair the color of the water entered the parlor. She was young but her eyes shined with intelligence. She carried herself with grace and confidence, her spine straight and her gaze fixed on the two men from the desert in front of her. King Barif greeted her with a sad smile.

“Bulma dear, our friends, the King of the Sayans and his son...”

“...are here to buy me over, like a piece of meat.” she interjected, sitting down next to her father. “Or should I say a piece of brain? After all, that's what you all are after: my knowledge, my studies, my secrets.”

Her clear eyes, danced from the king to his son, piercing as ice.

King Vegeta cleared his voice with annoyance: “You're a little too confident in your qualities, Princess Bulma. I only sought a fine bride for my son and a useful alliance for...”

“With all due respect: quit the lies, my lord.” she said, her eyes suddenly alive as blue flames. “I've already lost the chance of a suitable marriage with a man I deeply cared because of a political scheming. If I have to stay in the middle of a war, so be it. But I won't be the little pretty puppet, the prize waiting to be conquered or sold at the best offer.”

In the heavy silence of the room, king Vegeta bristled with fury.

“You insolent...”

Barif raised his hand, solemn for once: “My daughter is right, my friend. If you have some ulterior motive or plan involving her or my reign, beside our alliance, it's time to speak.”

King Vegeta snorted, still angry at the impudent girl. But before he could utter any insult, his son spoke.

“So the rumors are true. Behind that pretty face there's actually some brain.”

Bulma eyebrows rose, her gaze piercing the mysterious prince that sat in front of her.

“I can't say the same for you, given you didn't have even the decency to show your face. Not so surprising, for a barbarian.” she seethed.

“Bulma, don't be so rude to our handsome guests!” quipped her mother.

The princess ignored her, her tone more edged than usual.

“There's no need to continue this marriage farce. Can we talk business or not?”

King Vegeta was fuming, but nodded. His son grunted. Such an eloquent family, thought Bulma.

King Barif cleared his voice and tried to lighten up the atmosphere. Failing miserably.

“At the moment, there's not so much we can do. We should hand over Bulma to Frieza in 3 days. If we refuse, he will declare war. Marrying her to another man would bring death upon our people as well, and we cannot let it happen.”

“There's a price to pay in every war.” said King Vegeta. “But if we join forces we can defeat the emperor and his army.”

“That’s not happening.” Bulma interrupted, “I already accepted Frieza's hand not to put my people at risk. I'm not bargaining their lives for your power quest, no matter what.”

She eyed the prince of Sayans, searching for his black stare.

“You want the sacred dragon spheres, am I right? I know about you Sayans, there's not such a thing as 'joining forces' in your wars. That's why you need me, because I'm the only one who can actually find them”. The prince stared back, eyes unreadable but intense, two black holes in the shadow of his turban.

“There's only one way to do this without risking an open war between Frieza and Capsalis.” added Bulma.

The prince's eyes reduced to slits.

“Kidnapping the princess.” he answered.

She smirked.

“Frieza soon will know you've been here. He will know that the king refused your marriage proposal. He will know about your fury in front of this disgraceful dismissal. So it would not be a surprise if you were to attack my caravan on the way to Frieza Empire, haunted by my beauty. Capsalis could not be kept accountable of your conduct and you'd have me. Everybody wins. Except Frieza, obviously.”

Small wrinkles surrounded the prince's eyes, the ghost of a smirk imprinted on the cloth in front of his mouth.

“I don't know, insolent know-it-all girls are not my type.”

“Just as haughty and rude barbarians are not mine.” Bulma retorted, her words venom. “Enough. I think we have an agreement.” interfered King Vegeta, addressing directly to Bulma. “But let's be absolutely clear, my Lady: wife or not, the moment you are with us I expect nothing less of utter loyalty to the Sayans.”

“Rest assured, my Lord,” said Bulma, honey dripping from every word, “you'll have loyalty, but I expect the same from you all. Remember, it will be a fake marriage: after all is said and done, I expect to return home and be able to marry whoever I want. No strings attached.” she added, her gaze once again on the silent prince. He snorted.

“Afraid I wouldn't resist your charm? I've seen better.”

Bulma smiled. “Still, here you are...”

She stood and turned, her white and blue tunic, kept together only by some well-placed golden brooches, flowed around her curves in the caress of the evening breeze. The prince held her gaze, not raising to her bait. But she was, indeed, beautiful. Bulma smirked from behind her shoulder.

“Well, goodbye my Prince. As you can see we’re not meant for each other. May the fate grace you soon with a suitable bride.”

Before the prince could muster a crude remark, she was already gone.

 

***

 

King Vegeta rode in front of him while the night paled, the sky fading from a deep blue to a clear aquamarine not so different from her hair. Prince Vegeta frowned. As the previous encounter replayed in his head, he was less and less convinced about this strange deal. The fact he could not stop his thoughts from wandering to the foreign princess bothered him even more. He led his black Arabian stallion, side to side to his father's.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?”

The king stroked his beard, a habit he picked up since the queen's death, so long ago. It was the only way Vegeta could tell his father was nervous.

“It's our only option. We need her to find the sacred spheres.”

Vegeta halted his horse, dust rising around him. The lush habitat of Capsalis was already surrendering to the desert, where their warriors waited.

“What if Frieza uses her against us,” Vegeta dropped his gaze, a subtle movement of lids, nearly unnoticeable, “like he did with mother?”

The king turned around, his stoic face troubled. But sudden as a desert storm, his impassive stare claimed back his features.

“Don't compare that brat to your mother. She was our queen. That princess is nothing for us. Nothing.”

The king spurned his horse and rode towards the still invisible Sayan camp in the distance.

“Just be sure not to fall to her charm or grow fond of her, and everything will go as planned.”

Prince Vegeta snorted, fast on his father's tail. “Who do you think you're talking to?”

  


***

  


The caravan traced a blue line in the middle of vast Sahara. The long procession of camels, canopies and carriages stood up like a sore thumb in the monochrome void of the desert. Prince Vegeta watched from the top of a dune, as the bridal caravan moved with its lazy pace, oblivious of the hidden Sayan battalion.

Beside him stood a soldier with long black hair, busy chewing tobacco with nonchalance.

“So what? Have we been reduced to mere desert bandits, stealing brides and courtesans from the emperor?”

“Watch your tongue, Raditz. I'm already in a bad mood today.” growled the prince to his cousin.

Raditz muttered something about his horse being thirsty and put some distance between himself and the prince. His temper swings were legendary, as violent as sand storms, and usually caused the same amount of victims. He didn't know what possessed him to put on a stunt like that: kidnapping a princess, the one promised to Frieza nonetheless, was really out of character for the aloof and cold Prince of Sayans. But it wasn't his place to tell him. Raditz valued his life a lot, thank you very much.

The prince tucked the hem of his turban at his temple, covering his face. His eyes were blazing, hard as the stones of his homeland, but troubled like dark waters. This smart plan of hers was challenging his patience and his pride. He was accustomed to passing as the nearly-suicidal warlord he was, always on the brink of annihilation in his never ending quest for revenge against Frieza. But he couldn't stand to act as a lovesick prince, deploying his forces to kidnap a single woman like a spiteful child. He growled in frustration. Behind him, he felt Raditz approach him once again: it was time.

“Har Sayanji!” he cried, lifting his sword and spurning his horse. The blade gleamed in the light of the sun as the entire battalion of Sayans answered with a scream and slid down the dune like a red wave. Everything went as planned: the few soldiers put as guards of the caravan resisted, but as requested by King Barif, were not killed nor mortally harmed. They were valuable witnesses, ready to report to Frieza the surprise attack of the Sayans. Prince Vegeta took control of the caravan in few minutes; despite all the swords clashing and the crude cries of war still ringing in the air, not a single drop of blood was spilled, and that unnerved him. He approached the royal carriage, but before he could lift the curtains, Bulma was already in front of him, fierce and beautiful as he remembered her. A soldier approached the prince, muttering something. Servants and maids had been relegated in their caravans, but there were no trace of gold and jewels.

The prince snorted, his gaze never leaving Bulma.

“Such a bride you are, traveling without any dowry...”

Bulma smiled, leaning towards the prince.

“I'll tell you a secret: I am my own dowry, for my brain alone is more valuable than any gold and diamond in this world. Plus, I'm a beauty, in case you haven't noticed.”

Vegeta smirk was hidden behind his turban, but Bulma felt crawling it on her skin, like a snake coiling in the pit of her stomach.

In the fraction of a second she found herself bent over his horse, wrapped in the ripped curtain of her carriage like a sack of potatoes.

“Then, my Lady, I'm raiding you.”

The prince ignored her muffled protests and spurned his horse, disappearing with his army in the orange sky of the desert like a mirage.

 

 


	2. Fate of flames

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say: I didn't expect so many kudos and comments on this first chapter, so thank you all for the support! This is my first big project in English so it means a lot to me, and I want it to be good. Also, I'm glad I'm not the only one fantasizing on an "Arabian nights-style" Vegebul. ^^  
> I hope to meet your expectations. Enjoy the reading!
> 
> Soundtrack: "Away away" by Ibey

_I feel the pain_

_But I’m alive, I’m alive_

_Why should I be racing_

_my fate of flames?_

_(Away Away,_ Ibeyi _)_

 

The army arrived at the Sayan camp as the sun was setting, big and orange at the horizon. Prince Vegeta dismounted from his horse, dropping unceremoniously his precious cargo on the sand. Bulma emerged from the tangle of curtains with a growl, ready for the battle. She was a mess: her white tunic was disheveled and torn in one point, her hair tousled with her tiara at the point of falling from her once fine hairstyle.

The prince stood over her, beaming in her discomfort, surrounded by his men.

“Well, welcome to the Sayan camp, my lady. Did you enjoy the ride?” he smirked.

Then all hell broke loose. Bulma surged up as if bitten by a scorpion, trembling with rage and grinding her teeth. The slap that hit the prince’s face was so hard that managed to make his turban fall from his face. Bulma gasped. His hair was black as his eyes, proud and unruly as the prince himself. His skin, dark as wild honey, was marked on his forehead and chin with tattooed symbols, similar to the ones sported by the king and the others men. He was handsome and dangerous, the perfect creature of an unforgiving and wild land such as the desert. When Bulma realized she was ogling him, she squared her shoulders, not to lose her temper and gave the prince one of her legendary glare.

“How dare you treat me like a hunted prey, thrown over your smelly horse like that? You will never touch me again, you barbarian. And that's an order!”

The prince was still as a stone, but his eyes were blazing with fury, his full lips pressed in a thin and cruel line, fists clenching and trembling. Only then Bulma noticed every man present was holding his breath. No one dared to hit the prince or speak to him like that. Usually it caused a certain and painful death.

Vegeta suddenly grabbed her wrist, his fingers digging in her flesh and his voice icy.

“I think you need to learn who's in charge here, you insolent wench.”

Bulma felt instantly cornered like a small bird caged by a tiger, teeth bared and ready to strike. But she refused to cower.

“And you need to learn some manners. We're not in the jungle anymore, you animal!”

Vegeta didn't answer. With a low growl, he dragged her in his tent, ignoring her protests and leaving behind them only a stunned silence.

 

*

The royal tent was spacious, and beside the sparseness of the furnishing, it spoke of wealth and luxury. Gold embroidered pillows were scattered everywhere and the floor was covered with fine Persian carpets. Everything was tainted in various shades of red, from rich burgundy to blood-like crimson, fabrics encrusted with gems and gold trimming. But Bulma could not appreciate the beauty of her new home, too busy fighting for her pride.

“Let me go, you... you... you monkey!”

Bulma was wriggling as a tarantula and the prince launched her between the scattered pillows on the side of the tent.

“One more word, woman, and you will regret you have a mouth!”

“I'll speak when and how much I want! I'm not your prisoner nor one of your maids, and if you want my help you will treat me as the princess I am!”

“What help would I want from a woman so dense she can't understand what's her place?!”

“Oh, I know of a place you can go to...”

“Enough! Both of you!”

King Vegeta stood at the entrance of the tent, his severe stance alone ending the discussion.

The prince breathed through his nose, trying to calm himself. He brought his fist to his chest, saluting his king.

“Father. She defied me in front of the men. This outrage can't go unpunished!”

“You started it, manhandling me like a sack of potatoes!” roared Bulma.

The king sighed, stroking his beard and already regretting his deal with King Barif. The old man had warned him about the temper of his genius daughter. And speaking of temper...

Prince Vegeta was already boiling with rage, ready to burst. The king raised his hand.

“I don't care if you get along at all or not, but in front of the others you are married, so act accordingly and quit the fighting, both of you.”

“If she was really my wife I would have beaten some sense in that head of hers...” growled the prince under his breath. Bulma gritted her teeth.

“If you so much try to touch me again, I will murder you in your sleep!”

“Oh, I'd like to see you try...”

“I said enough!” The king was losing his patience. “Son, how much as I regret it, we have a deal with king Barif: we cannot return a _damaged good_ .” he said, nodding towards an outraged Bulma. “And you,” he added to her, “does the word loyalty ring a bell? Defying a prince in public is not an option. For as much you'll stay here, he is your husband and your prince. Never forget that, or there will be consequences, _your highness_ ”.

With a swish of his cape, the king was about to leave, but turned for a last order.

“It's getting late, and with the show you put on it’s unwise for you two to be seen in public so soon: stay here and let the others believe you are _consumating_. Son, I'll see you in the morning.” he added, the folders of the tent closing behind him.

The two remained silent, still fuming in their rage. The prince was the first to turn around and start removing his cloak and garments. Bulma stuttered, embarrassed.

“Oh, have you no decency? Where am I supposed to change? I don't even have my luggage with me...”

“Use your eyes, woman: your trunk it's over there, behind that curtain. I had it brought in here while you were messing around with my patience.” he growled. With a fluid movement his tunic rolled down his shoulders and joined the heap of clothes on the carpet floor.

Bulma bit her lips, checking her things.

“Thank you...”

She peeked around her shoulder, finding a shirtless prince, completely unashamed of his nudity. His skin was marred with many scars, intertwined with another set of tattoos and symbols that ran along his spine and hips, disappearing under his trousers. Bulma unconsciously followed the ink trail down his navel, but when she lifted her gaze she found his black eyes staring back at her, with a malicious gleam. She turned hastily, a furious blush spreading on her cheeks and neck.

“D-don't get any strange ideas!” she stuttered, “You are forbidden to touch me, by any means. Also, it would be better if we slept in different bed...”

A heavy cover landed on her head, muffling her protests. The prince, nearly undressed, was smirking again.

“For once I agree.”

He lay down on the ample bed, covering himself with an embroidered quilt. Bulma blinked.

“Wait! Where's my bed?”

The prince opened one eye, smirking even more.

“It's right under your feet.”

She glanced at the hard pavement where she stood, a simple carpet spread on the nude sand with some pillows scattered around.

“You can't be serious...”

“I am always serious.” he replied, a strange smile betraying in his voice. “I don't share my bed with someone who's not willing to share something else...”

Bulma gritted her teeth, not falling for his trick.

“Forget it!”

She hurried, arranging a pile of pillow as a nest, and wrapped herself in the covers.

Vegeta chuckled: victory was his, at last.

“Make yourself comfortable, then.” added the prince, his tone strangely cheerful while he shut down the oil lamp. “Sleep well, _princess_. Oh, and beware of the snakes...”

Her strangled shriek made his day.

 

*

 

Bulma woke up suddenly, a strange feeling nagging at her. She groggily brushed away tangled hair from her face, sitting up in the middle of the pillows nest. She squinted at the sudden light, scanning her surrounding: she was alone in the royal tent, the irritating prince nowhere to be seen. Thank the gods. Only then she sensed another presence, a dark figure looming over her. She nearly screamed again, but a small hand covered her mouth.

“Don't scream. It’s not worthy of a Sayan princess. And it's rude.”

The woman was petite, but Bulma could sense the hidden strength in her lithe limbs. Her black long hair were coiffed in a loose bun with strands running down her shoulders. She wore the traditional Sayan clothes, a dark red tank top matching her embroidered skirt, two long splints revealing a pair of burgundy pants underneath, the hem decorated with gold trim and anklets. The mysterious woman sported a set of tattoos similar to Vegeta's, on her forehead and chin, and her hands were decorated with red henna.

“I presume the first night together didn't go as planned, uh?”

Bulma stuttered, suddenly embarrassed and at loss of words.

“Don't worry princess, I'm well aware of your deal with our prince.” smirked the woman.

“Y-you know?” asked Bulma, trying to stand up and make herself presentable, “But who are you?”

“I'm ChiChi,” said the stranger, adding at the sight of Bulma's oblivious expression: “I'm Goku's wife. He's the prince's cousin, as well as Raditz.”

“I don't know who you're talking about...”

“Don't worry, you'll know them soon enough. After all, we are relatives now”, said ChiChi, winking. “Don't you want to change in something more comfortable or... clean?”

It occurred to Bulma she was still in her tattered tunic, already wrinkled and dirty from the previous voyage and the prince's manhandling. She was about to undress but stopped, glancing around, worried.

“The prince is at the council with his father and the other men. No one will disturb us 'till noon.” assured ChiChi. Bulma sighed and proceeded to change in a pair of loose pantaloons and a new flowing tunic from her trunk.

“Are you here to babysit me? The royal pain in the ass doesn't trust me so much that I can’t even undress alone?”

ChiChi laughed. “Don't be like that, I thought I could show you the camp and some basic rule. I think we already covered the 'don't slap the prince in front of everybody' part, didn't we?”

Bulma blushed: as a matter of fact she wasn't proud of her first faux pas in the Sayan camp. Even if the jerk deserved it.

“Yeah, that one is pretty much clear, thank you.” muttered Bulma, following her hopefully new friend outside.

The Sayan campsite swarmed with life: many of the men were busy packing their tents and loading camels with food and water.

“Are we leaving?” Bulma asked at her guide.

“No, the king and his men will join forces with his brother’s army.” said ChiChi, “This is the main Sayan camp here in the west: a refuge for women, elders and children. We’re staying here. Until our water source will last, that’s it.”

Bulma scoffed: finally an adventure, and she was already stuck with women and children. She watched a group of soldiers struggling to lift a bucket from a deep well, plowed in the sand. It was a hard work and the water coming out was few and turbid.

“Is that the only water source of the camp?” she asked her guide.

ChiChi shrugged. “We have two more wells but yes, this is the main one. Why?”

“I think I can come up with something more efficient…” Bulma muttered, eyeing an elder woman, busy in sewing. Bulma approached her, smiling.

“My lady…” said the woman, bowing.

“Please, no need to be this formal. Can you make something similar to a very fine net?” Bulma asked the woman, adding, when she nodded: “I’ll need ten yards of that.”

Then she ran towards some men, working in dismantling a damaged tent nearby. ChiChi follower her, confused by her sudden bustling, watching the new Sayan princess startling and confusing the group of Sayans.

“Do you have more of these reeds?” Bulma asked the men, testing the flexibility of the support structure, made of lean canes.

“Yes, my lady...”

“Good. When you’re done, can you please make a pile over there? And I’ll need some of you to build the main structure…”

ChiChi watched in awe as a small crowd gathered around the new princess, listening closely as she drew some strange specs on the sand. In less than an hour the small group was already busy building her strange project.  

When Bulma joined ChiChi once again, she was smiling, her mood greatly improved.

“Sorry for the delay, we can continue our guided tour.”

“What are they building?”, asked ChiChi.

“Oh, you’ll see… It’s one of my latest inventions, it will help to gather more water supplies and faster.”

The Sayans worked loudly, boasting and brawling with one another, while the women helped the elder one with the sewing. Bulma noted many of them were armed with a lighter and slimmer version of the men's scimitar or a heavily decorated dagger.

“Does Sayan women fight as well?” she asked ChiChi.

“Yes, but we're usually more on the defense lines... why do you ask?”

“Well, everyone here seems to be armed... you too”, said Bulma, pointing at the golden and ruby encrusted dagger that ChiChi held tucked in her waistband.

“Oh, this... it is a weapon, but it has a more personal meaning. You see, when a Sayan man proposes, he usually gives a dagger or a sword to her spouse as a gift. Goku gave me this one before we married, a couple of years ago” she added, blushing.

Bulma rolled her eyes. “A weapon. Your men declare love with a weapon. How romantic...” ChiChi laughed, suddenly bitter, heading towards the edge of the camp. “We are a warrior tribe. And after living nearly two decades as nomad, chased down and on the brink of extinction, you too would value more the importance of a weapon.”

Bulma stopped in her tracks, grabbing ChiChi’s hand. She didn’t want to ruin this newborn friendship, maybe the only one she had in this foreign land.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to insult you...”

ChiChi simply watched her for a long time, assessing her like an opponent. When Bulma started to feel uncomfortable, her lips curved in a warm smile.

“Don't worry about it. But don't mention it with the prince. He's not so... understanding.”

The two women resumed their stroll along the camp borders.

Bulma basked in the comfortable silence, until her curiosity won her inner struggle.

“What happened? I mean, I heard stories about the war between Fireza and the Sayans, but...”

ChiChi's gaze was lost somewhere on the horizon, as if searching for memories in the distant dunes. She sighed.

“I don't know if I'm supposed to tell you this, but I think the more you know about us and about this war, the more you could help us.”

She crouched and traced indistinct shapes on the sand.

“I was just a kid and lived in a different village, but my father, king of the Ox tribe, told me about the Sadala siege.”

“Sadala? The ancient Sayan capital?”

“Yes. It happened nearly 20 years ago, when Frieza was still expanding his empire. Diplomatic relations between Sayans and the Cold Empire weren't good to start with. We’ve always been good soldiers, our army was feared even beyond the desert and occasionally we worked for Frieza too. But when he demanded a pledge of allegiance from the Sayans, and the king refused, things escalated quickly. The emperor made his move and beset the city of Sadala for three months.”

Bulma recalled the fact from her history lessons. She didn't give it much importance at the time. Sadala was only a name written on parchment, another date to memorize for a child's mind.

“Our fathers fought greatly, always managing to block Frieza's forces and keep the city safe. But things went badly when Cold's men poisoned our water sources. King Vegeta summoned his army and left the city for the final battle, pushing the Cold's forces far from the walls of Sadala. He thought victory was near. But he was wrong...”

The wind was raging, sweeping the dunes and drawing ominous shapes in the desert. Bulma shivered, embracing herself despite the searing heat of the sun.

“An elite group of Frieza's men managed to outflank the Sayan army and enter in Sadala. The women fought well under the lead of queen Saba, but they were too strong. When the king was about to claim victory, Frieza used queen Saba as a hostage to obtain the Sayan's capitulation. The queen was well-loved and respected by all our people, but she didn't want to be the cause of our destruction. So...”

Bulma gasped, knowing what was about to come.

“... she killed herself.”

The wind was already howling, lifting the sand in spirals and vortexes in front of the two women. ChiChi rose swiftly, cupping Bulma's elbow gently.

“Come, a sand storm is approaching.”

Bulma stopped in her tracks, her tunic swirling in the wind like the wings of a frightened bird.

“What happened then?”

ChiChi paused, her mouth a thin line, urging her to move. “Come on, we have to...”

“What happened?”

The Sayan woman sighed. “The king was distraught, but he respected the queen's sacrifice and was ready to fight back and take his revenge. But Frieza had another ace in his sleeve. He took young prince Vegeta prisoner, even if he was a mere child at the time. The king couldn't let his own heir die too, so he surrendered and handed the city to the emperor. Even after that, Sayans are still chased down and killed at every corner. Frieza kept the prince with him, to prevent any rebellion from the survivors. That's why he's known as the Lost Prince.”

Bulma let the young woman drag her towards the camp, too baffled to do any resistance. She understood now, the need for secrecy, his face always hidden in Capsalis.

“The lost… Wait, for how long was he prisoner?” she asked, her voice trembling.

ChiChi had to shout to cover the roaring of the wind.

“Nearly 20 years. He managed to return home less than a year ago”

Bulma felt a lump in her throat, while sand and grit abraded her cheeks like sandpaper. But the tears gathering in her eyes had nothing to do with it. As they reached the nearest tent, she let the storm swallow her bitter tears.

 


	3. The thrill of the hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're getting along so well!  
> Or maybe... not.
> 
> Soundtrack: "The hunt", Niyaz

 

_“Let’s go to the mountains_

_Which mountains?_

_The same that have eagles_

_For the clutch of the eagle reminds me of the clutch of my beloved”_

_(The Hunt, Niyaz)_

 

 

For once in his life, Vegeta was mildly satisfied. The meeting with his father had gone well: everything was settled, and the plan could proceed. They were about to separate, the king leading the army north, to join Bardock’s battalion and preparing for the impending battle, him headed wherever the sacred spheres might be, with a small but lethal group of elite soldiers, using the main camp as a base. Vegeta returned to his tent defying the storm and the swirly sand that darkened the sun. Everything was now in the hands of the woman. He couldn’t wait to see if she could really find the sacred spheres, the hunt already a challenge in his mind. It shot a spark of electricity through his spine, an excitement he hadn’t felt for so long. His Ascension - his revenge - was so close.

When he entered the tent, he found the princess asleep on his bed. For a moment he stood there, covered in sand, watching her breathing calmly. But something was off, and he could see traces of tears in the dirt still clinging to her rosy cheeks. For a split moment, one faint beating of his heart, he felt the sudden urge to cancel the path left by the salty water on her face. But as she stirred, he remembered himself, regaining his severe scowl, still hidden behind the drape of his turban.

“Wake up, woman!” he barked.

When she jumped, startled and still half asleep, he felt laughter bubble up in his throat, strange and foreign as the previous need to touch her. He cleared his voice.

“Stop wasting time and start tracking the dragon spheres. We are leaving tomorrow at dawn.”

She was still rubbing her eyes, her voice sleepy against her better effort to sound stern.

“Oh let me be, will you? I couldn’t get one minute of sleep on that floor, last night… Your hospitality leaves a lot to be desired.”

“I told you, you could have joined me.” he said, only half joking. What if she had said yes?

“But you refused. And now you’re sleeping on my bed, uninvited. Get off.”

“Jeez, I know you were raised by a psychotic dictator, but there's no need to be this rude with m-”

He was on her like the storm outside, his anger nearly choking him. How dare she speak of… He bent down, trapping her on the pallet with his arms and the force of his icy glare. She tried to back away from him, but didn’t have anywhere to go, her face so near he could sense her trembling on his own skin. She radiated fear but while he usually basked in the metallic taste of dread and impending death on his enemies, seeing her flinch didn’t appeal him the slightest. “I'm-I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that...” she stuttered.

The ragged puffs of air escaping from her lips bounced on the flimsy piece of fabric that still covered his face and it took him every ounce of willpower not to drop his gaze on her lips.

“You should learn to keep your mouth shut when in my presence,” he growled, voice low and lethal. “Another word and I'll cut that unruly tongue of yours.”

The same tongue that darted out of her mouth, wetting her parched lips while she unconsciously tormented the soft flesh with her teeth. The mundane movement was strangely hypnotic, and he couldn’t help to mimic her, hidden behind the fabric of his turban, as she struggled to summon an ounce of her previous bravery.

“We both know you won't dare. I said I am sorry. Now let me go, so I can work on tracking the first sphere.”

He took one last dip in the blue depth of her eyes, then moved aside. She immediately put as much space as possible between them, rummaging in her trunk, and he did the same.

That woman was unnerving. Her acts of defiance angered him, but at the same time ignited something deep and unknown in his core. Every challenge she threw at him brought a sudden and violent need to grasp, conquer and possess. But his father was right: the princess was, in every sense, untouchable. That was the deal, if he wanted to find those damned spheres and have his revenge at last. The problem was he didn’t cope well with prohibitions and when people told him he couldn’t have something, usually he worked twice as hard to prove them wrong. It costed him a lot of whipping in his youth under Fireza’s rule. And now he wanted it all.

While he was freeing himself from the turban and the cape, still full of sand, he saw her extracting something small from her duffle bag and curiosity won the battle against the remaining of his rage.

“What’s that?”

Her shoulders tensed, but she managed not to sound too startled by his sudden question.

“You want an answer or should I keep my mouth shut?”, she retorted, a gracious smirk on her lips. Gods, that woman was going to be the death of him.

“I’m glad you finally learned to ask for permission before opening your mouth,” he smirked back. “You may speak.”

She growled, a cute and harmless sound that almost made him laugh. Again.

“It’s a compass specifically modified to track the spheres. I could explain how it works, but I doubt a non-genius like you would understand...”

He sneaked behind her and took the device from her hands.

It seemed an ordinary compass, but it had more than one needle, each one pointing in a different direction. Strange symbols and numbers were graven on the sides of the object, alongside small gears and fine cogs.

“Hey, give it back!”

Bulma gripped his arm, trying to take the compass back.

“Speak first, and I’ll think about it.”

“You don’t even know how it works!”

“So explain it to me. I won’t follow blindly you or your unknown contraption.”

Bulma let go a frustrated sigh.

“Fine. But don’t blame me if your barbarian brain can’t grasp the concept,” she seethed. “I discovered the orbs you’re looking for contain a particular metal alloy that can attract iron like a magnet. A specific cured iron, obviously. Based on my studies and some ancient alchemical text, I found out every orb has a different amount of that alloy, so with some adjustment on the compass I can choose which one to track and, with some calculation your brain can’t possibly understand, determine how far the selected orb is.”

Vegeta tried to maintain his detached and indifferent scowl, but he was indeed impressed.

She was younger than him, but managed nonetheless to discover the secrets of some legendary magic spheres nobody had seen before. Maybe cutting her tongue wasn’t the smartest idea, after all. He gave her the compass before she started to climb him like a tree to have it back.

“Show me.”

She rolled her eyes, took a piece of parchment, a nib and some ink, and settled down on the carpet, already immersed in her calculations. After shifting various times the needles with the gears on the sides of the compass, she began scribbling down more symbols and numbers, muttering absently. Vegeta crouched beside her, intrigued. His gaze was once again drawn to her mouth, her plump lips moving along with her writing, speaking a mute language made of numbers, mysteries and formulas. He woke up from his reverie when her magnetic mouth curled in a smile.

“There. The nearest one is 20 miles south-east from here. 125 degrees south-east, to be exact. Happy now?”

The smug smile she sported suited her. He rose on his feet, dismissing her temporary victory with a shrug. “I’ll be happy when all the spheres will be in my hands and I’ll have the power to destroy Frieza.”

The princess stood up beside him, brushing away the sand from her tunic. She watched him out of the corner of her eyes.

“And what are you willing to give to obtain such a power?”

“What?”

The seriousness of her blue eyes was heavy on his shoulders, like a cascade of cold water.

“Those spheres… they’re called sacred and magical, but they’ve nothing to do with this nonsense. If my studies are right, they are an ancient alchemical artefact. And in alchemy there is one rule above all: nothing is born from nothing. There’s no creation without transformation and everything comes with a price to pay. If that’s true… what are you willing to give in exchange for the power you seek?”.

What was he willing to _give_? Vegeta felt the telltale ripple of rage seeping through his veins. He had already lost everything. His mother, his reign, his birthright. Hell, even his youth was gone, wasted as a slave, a toy in the hands of a sadistic emperor. His life had a sole purpose: revenge. Every step, every breath and battle were fueled by pride and rage.

“Frieza already took everything from me,” he growled, hands balled into tight fists. “ _Everything._ What’s left for me to offer?”

He felt her hand, a warm presence hovering on his back. Her pity burned his skin like the time he was tossed in the hot embers of the fire by Frieza’s goon.

“I’m sorry...”

An ancient rage tore through him, like a clawed animal ready to kill and destroy and annihilate. “Stay away from me!” he roared, storming out of the tent before doing something that he would regret.

 

*

 

The bonfire crackled with life in the middle of the camp. Every man and woman sat in circles, chatting and eating from various dishes that were passed hand-to-hand. The atmosphere was cheerful and helped Bulma to forget her first disastrous day at the Sayan camp. She sat on carpets and pillows beside ChiChi, in what seemed to be the ‘place of honor’ by the bonfire.The most trusted members of the royal family and the Sayan Tribe were seated around her. Raditz, one of Vegeta’s cousins, was ogling all the girls in a ten miles radius, laughing with his booming voice at some gritty remark ChiChi just made. She tried not to be distracted by the exchange, focusing once more on the living mountain that was Nappa. From what she could understand, the older and intimidating Sayan was king Vegeta’s best adviser and his most trusted General. That’s because, she learned, he offered himself as Fireza’s prisoner to stay with the prince since his kidnapping. It was clear the man cared deeply for the Lost Prince: he had been his mentor, his guide and his only link to the Sayan culture for nearly 20 years. But mostly, he was the closest image of a family the young Vegeta had ever had during his imprisonment.

That’s probably why he was so adamant to instruct the new princess about the frustrating maze that was the Sayan lineage. Bulma sighed for the tenth time, sipping her scolding tea.

“Wait, explain it to me once again: what’s the matter with Bardock? How come you don’t have two kings?” she asked Nappa.

The gigantic Sayan grumbled, unwillingly repeating his lesson: “Bardock and the king are brothers, but from different mothers. And King Vegeta, being the son of the previous king’s first wife, was the only one entitled to take the throne.”

“Two brothers, one throne,” she blinked. “A very precarious balance if you ask me. There had been wars for less…”

She could see a vein pulsing on Nappa’s forehead, his patience thinning: “The Sayan empire was very powerful, but deep down we are still desert people. As our ancestors’ tribes, our social system is based on clans and family bonds. You don’t fight your brothers, your parents or your family. No matter what. It’s inconceivable, forbidden _and_ disgraceful.”

Bulma snorted: “Well, you should remind that to your prince. He could revise the ‘be nice to your spouse’ part…”

“Maybe it’s because my spouse is an insufferable know-it-all with no sense of preservation whatsoever.”

Bulma nearly jumped at the sudden arrival of the prince, while the crowd gathered at the bonfire hushed. She ignored the unnerving silence and regained her composure quickly, shooting her glare to Vegeta.

“Maybe it’s because my husband is a rude barbarian who should learn to control his temper,” she retorted, watching rage boiling and reddening the prince’s face.

“Maybe _you_ should stop defying my patience at every corner!”

“Hey are you Vegeta’s wife? Nice to meet you! ChiChi told me you would be here tonight... Bulma, isn’t it?”

Her attention was sidetracked by a tall and grinning figure that emerged behind the prince, already busy stuffing his mouth with food. He didn’t bother to swallow before addressing again to the prince: “Hey Vegeta, she’s cool! When will you two make some babies?”

“Never!” both Vegeta and Bulma shouted, their faces equally red.

"Why not? You're getting along so well..."

Bulma was about to continue her rant, but the prince grabbed a bowl of rice and left the gathering so suddenly as he had arrived.

“Wait!” she shouted, “We’re not done here!”

“Maybe he’s tired from our training,” added the stranger, still inhaling his food. She shook her head, focusing on the new Sayan seated beside her.

“Who are you?”

“Bulma this is Goku, my husband,” sighed ChiChi, patting her beloved’s hand.

“And my dumb but insanely strong little brother,” added Raditz, smacking his aforementioned brother on the head.

“Ow! What was that about?”

“Because you’re an ill-mannered monkey, you idiot! You shouldn't meddle with the Prince's love life.”

"But it's true, they're a nice couple!"

Bulma watched the strange exchange in awe and amusement, feeling the tension and the strange silence leaving the bonfire, after the prince’s departure.

“A nice couple...” she whispered, as her irritation fading in a strange shade of sadness. “He can’t even speak to me without shouting or leaving in a hurry. Such a husband he is...”

“Oh, don’t mind Vegeta,” interrupted Goku, his carefree smile never faltering. “He had a rough life, but he’s a Sayan, and he has a great sense of honor. He might be intimidating and cold, but he would never let you down or hurt you.”

Nappa nodded solemnly, while the princess let out a bitter laugh.

“I’m not worried at all. In fact, I don’t care about his tantrums but I can’t be married to someone who clearly doesn’t respect or trust me one bit.”

Her new family fell silent, exchanging uncomfortable looks.

“My Lady, you have to understand,” said Nappa, after a while, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Vegeta doesn’t trust anybody. He simply can’t. He spent nearly all his life away from his people and family, in enemy territory, always expecting to be beaten or killed at the next corner… Don’t resent him for that, he couldn’t have survived otherwise.”

“That’s an understatement,” added Raditz, serious for once. “When he returned he wouldn’t speak to anyone. It took us months to convince him to come hunting with us or have a simple conversation. And even after a year, Goku is the only one he spar with.”

Bulma felt her cheeks burn. She considered herself the smartest woman in the world, but it didn’t occur to her the real extent of the damage inflicted by Frieza. Not only he managed to exploit the strong bonds between Sayans to defeat them, he somehow carved in the prince’s mind that attachment is weakness. To survive in a world where everyone could be your killer, you have to cut every tie, keep everyone at distance. It was indeed logical. But...

She watched ChiChi taking Goku’s hand in her own, a sweet and supportive gesture she was sure Vegeta rarely experienced in his life. How had he felt in all those years away from home and family? Lonely? Scared? Angry? She couldn’t even imagine the true extent of his sorrow. And now he was a respected and feared leader, but a stranger in his home and among his own people. Lost, indeed.

“I… I think I’ll retire for the night. Thank you for keeping me company.” she said, standing up swiftly. The more she thought about the prince, the more she wanted to choke the life out of Frieza with her bare hands, a need so strong and violent it frightened her. She sat down on the carpet of her tent and waited, listening to the sound of the night in the dark.

She was almost asleep, bundled up in the cozy nest between the pillows, when the soft rustling of discarded clothes alerted her of the prince’s return.

He was already half naked, the blue hue of the moon gently outlining the wide expanse of his back. How much weight was burdening that shoulders? She watched mesmerized the strange symbols she saw the night before, dancing on his skin, and she suddenly wanted to unveil all their secrets. His secrets.

The whispered question escaped her mouth before she could stop it.

“What’s the meaning of your tattoos?”

The prince remained silent for a long time.

“You claim to be a genius,” he finally said, slipping under the blankets of his bed without glancing at her, “Find out by yourself.”

Bulma sighed. Then, with a small grunt, rose from her self-made bed and reached for him.

  


*

 

Vegeta was tired. He had trained and worn himself out the whole evening, trying to vent out his frustration. The previous conversation with the woman had been deeply unsettling. First her unwanted pity, then her constant questions and judgments. The mere memory from few hours before sickened him. That’s why he didn’t notice her approaching until he felt her fingers ghosting over his skin. He bolted up as if burned, abruptly grabbing her wrist with no gentleness.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he seethed through clenched teeth, trying to scare her with his blazing eyes. She simply held his gaze, half bent over him with a knee on his bed.

“You said to figure it out by myself,” she said nonchalantly.

Oh, the tattoos. That answer was meant to shut her up, not inviting her to a translation session, especially not one that involved him half naked and her in his bed. With tousled hair and her tunic dangerously loose on her cleavage. Dear gods.

Vegeta pushed her away abruptly.

“Forget it,” he scoffed. “I’m not a piece parchment for you to study. Stay away from me, woman. I won’t repeat myself.”

She stood with a sigh, folding her arms defensively.

“I was just trying to know you better…”

“Your job is to find the dragon spheres, nothing more.” Possibly without driving him nuts in the meantime, he added mentally, presenting her with his back once again.

“Maybe, but for the rest of the world I’m your wife!”

The prince turned, a smirk adorning his face.

“So what? Want to fulfill your marital duty?” he asked, enjoying her outraged expression. He was distracted by the raging blush that bloomed on her skin, spreading on her cheeks and neck.

“What? No! I just… oh, forget it!” she stuttered, stomping back to her messy nest of covers.

“That’s what I thought. Be sure to wake up at dawn, or I’ll drag you on that horse like the burden you are,” he sneered, finally giving up to sleep at the sound of her insults.

 

 


	4. Get a spark of love (and let the sky burn)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey begins. And so do problems.
> 
> Soundtrack: "Mirzya”, Shankar-Ehsaan-Loy & Gulzar, from the movie "Mirzya"

 

_ “The earth rotates round and round, _

_ yet it doesn't go anywhere. _

_ It just revolves around you” _

_ (“Mirzya”, Shankar-Ehsaan-Loy & Gulzar) _

 

 

The sun was still hidden behind the dunes, the sky tinged with stripes of blue and purple, preparing for the beginning of the day. Prince Vegeta was already on his stallion, his unreadable face already covered by his turban, while Goku and Raditz were loading their horses with supplies, water flasks and folded covers, the necessary for a week-long journey. Bulma yawned for the tenth time, while arranging her bundles of clothes and charts at her saddle. The modified compass hung from her neck, attached to a long silver chain. She paused in her work when the small group was approached by the king and his army. 

“Son, this is where we part ways,” he said to the prince, “I look forward to seeing you on the battlefield, and ride side by side towards our victory.”

The prince bowed his head, hitting his chest with a fist. 

“And goodbye to you, my lady,” added the king, looking Bulma straight in the eyes, “I hope your quest will be fruitful. Don’t disappoint me.”

Bulma snorted, biting her tongue, while the king and his battalion rode away among a cloud of sand and coarse war cries. Nappa, who was departing with the king, stood behind one moment more. “My prince, I’ll see you again under the great walls of Sadala, our city finally free.”

Vegeta simply nodded, watching the general bow and leave to join his king. 

“I hope Bardock is a better father in law-than-mine” Bulma whispered to ChiChi, that was helping her to mount on the dromedary. The woman chuckled, leaving her to say goodbye to her husband. Bulma saw her taking Goku’s hand, grazing the inside of his wrist with her lips, then pressing his fingers above her heart, while he did the same for her. They both said something in a Sayan dialect she couldn’t translate. Bulma averted her eyes, suddenly embarrassed as if she was witnessing something private and intimate. The booming voice of Raditz made her jump out of her reverie. 

“Hey princess, you’d better cover up if you don’t want to get a sunburn.” he said grinning, pointing the flimsy tunic she wore and the silk veil draped over her hair. 

“I’m fine, don’t worry. Are we leaving or not?”

“As soon as the lovebirds are done. Goku, c’mon!” he barked, spurring his horse. She waved ChiChi goodbye and followed the trio, prince Vegeta already far ahead in the faint light of sunrise.

 

After nearly a day of march, Bulma was amazed. She checked her compass for the millionth time but the course was once again correct. How was it even possible? She hadn’t given any further direction to the prince since the beginning of the journey, but Vegeta had managed to keep the course steady and aimed towards the right direction. She shook her head to clear her mind. The sun was still high in the afternoon sky and its scorching rays, along with the undulating movement of the dromedary, were giving her a headache. She spurred her animal and joined Goku, riding at his side. 

“How does he do that?” she asked, nodding towards the prince.

“Do what?”

Bulma fought another fit of dizziness before replying: “Keeping the right course. I didn’t see him glance once at a compass or a map in the last five hours… how can he guess the right direction?”

Goku smiled. “We’re called the Lords of the desert, you know. We never lose our path, and we can find every oasis and village without maps.”

“But there are no references in the desert, and the dunes are all the same! How do you manage to orientate yourselves?”

“That’s a secret,” he winked. “And you’re wrong, every dune is different. You just have to recognize the eternal ones from the ones molded by the winds.”

“But how-”

“And I thought you were the genius,” interjected the prince, his eyes gleaming with mockery over his shoulder.

Bulma felt suddenly hot, while a mix of rage and embarrassment reddened her cheeks.

“I just need some further detail to figure it out…” she mumbled, her queasiness increasing by the minute. Goku’s face, suddenly worried, swarmed before her eyes.

“My lady?”

She couldn’t see him anymore, the horizon suddenly dark and hot. She tried to breathe but the scorching air filled her lungs with fire. Suddenly she felt herself falling and then nothing more.

 

*

 

Vegeta saw her skin flush, then the irregular bob of her head. When her eyes fluttered closed, and she started sliding down the saddle, he turned his horse and caught her just in time. 

“Dammit… woman, wake up!”

She was a dead weight in his arms, eyes closed and breathing labored. He cradled her head, her skin burning under his fingers. Goku secured the reins of the dromedary to his saddle while Raditz ran at his side.

“Heat stroke?” he asked, “I told her that joke of a veil wouldn’t protect her from the desert sun...”

The prince growled in frustration, scanning the horizon.

“We are 7 miles from Kalel.”

“It’s too far. She won’t make it.”

The prince took off his cloak, wrapping it around Bulma and securing her body to his own, between his arms. “There’s a small oasis one mile from here in the same direction. I’ll wait you there, hurry up.” 

He didn’t wait for their answer and set the horse off as fast as he could.

Stupid woman, with her non-existent clothes, he muttered, riding through the dunes. Because of her vanity his destiny was at stake and the search for the dragon spheres wasn’t even begun. Bulma whimpered, a small sound that breached through his rage like a blade, piercing something inside his chest.

He tightened his grip on her and urged his horse.

After a while the small oasis, just a small pond with some palm trees in the middle of nowhere, bloomed out from the desert like a mirage. Vegeta halted his horse, jumping down with the woman in his arms. He discarded the cloak and his suffocating turban, getting in the water without bothering to remove his boots. He lowered Bulma in the small pool, kneeling beside her to cup the crystal water and pour it gently on her forehead and hair. She was still hot, but the redness on her skin was subsiding and her breathing was steadier. He ignored his drenched clothes, too mesmerized by the soft figures painted in the water by her loose hair and the tantalizing sheerness of her wet tunic. He let the water drip once again on her face, cold fingers grazing her temple, when her eyes fluttered open.

“Ve-Vegeta…”

The prince exhaled, letting go a breath he didn’t even know he was holding. His heart skipped a beat when her hand reached for his uncovered face. He caught her wrist mid-air, an unconditional reflex. 

“What happened?” she said, her voice feeble and strained. 

“You had a heat stroke and fainted.” Vegeta growled, hearing Goku and his brother approach. What was he thinking, holding her like that? He rose abruptly, pulling Bulma with him and dumping her unceremoniously under the shadow of a near palm tree. “Stay there. And next time cover yourself appropriately. I won’t take another detour because of your foolishness.”

When her witty remark didn’t come, he turned: Bulma was leaning against the trunk, her delicate features contorted in a pained expression, eyes swollen with unshed tears. The shred of guilt that pierced his heart enraged him even more: growling, he stalked towards his cousins to set up a campsite.

 

*

 

In the crisp air of the night, Bulma could finally breathe. She let her thoughts fly in the wind like her clothes, hanging dry from the palm breeches. In a new set of pantaloons and tunic, she wrapped herself with a heavy cover, having found the courage to leave the bonfire and the laughter of the two brothers. Prince Vegeta was resting on his mat, a little afar from the others, his gaze lost on the stunning sky. When she sat down next to him, careful not to touch him, he closed his eyes. Bulma sighed.

“I wanted to thank you. I’m not accustomed to travel in the desert, so…” 

Her words faltered when he didn’t even look at her. She wet her lips, tracing nervous signs on the sand. Why was it so difficult to speak to him? “Anyway, you saved my life today. And I’ve been so horrible to you the whole time. Well, both of us… But I’d like to start over, to know you and your people better.” 

She smiled, trying to lighten up the atmosphere: “And while we’re at it, how did you manage to find this oasis in the middle of nowhere? I couldn’t figure it out, I’m impressed...”

Once again, he didn’t answer, eyes still closed and heart sealed up against the world.  Against her. Bulma swallowed, uneasiness twisting her insides: was it going to be like this for her entire permanence with the Sayans?

_ Why are you even trying? You’re nothing more than a mean to get the spheres _ , a nagging voice told her. She sighed, defeated, trying her best not to cry again. He didn’t deserve it.

“Fine. I get it. I won’t bother you anymore.”

She was about to get up and leave, when she felt him sigh, a long breath that expanded his chest like a sleeping mountain. His eyes opened.

“This one is Nayyir. I think you call it Jupiter. It always points west, and you can see it in the morning too. There are other stars a trained eye can spot even in the scorching sun. Aldebaran, Kaleesi, Omr’an…”

Bulma held her breath, excitement sizzling on her skin like electricity.

“Can you show them to me? I don’t recognize these names...”

The prince scoffed, but lifted his arm to the sky nonetheless.

“Here. That one, beside the Lion Chain…”

“You mean the Orion Belt?”

“To us it’s the Lion Chain. Do you want to know how we do that, or not?”

“Fine. Go on.”

They spent the night stargazing, something Bulma hasn’t done since her childhood, discussing astronomy and translating their knowledge in one another’s language. 

She fell asleep under a blanket of stars beside him, the smile on her face shining as the crescent moon - Amar, the Sayan prince has called it. The names were different, but after all they shared the same sky.

 

*

 

They woke up early, to start the trip without the unforgiving heat of the day. By the time Vegeta and the brothers had finished packing the campsite, Bulma was still trying to arrange the long strip of fabric Raditz gave her into a turban, failing miserably. In the middle of her ninth attempt, she felt the prince’s eyes on her. A little embarrassed for the poor result of her efforts, she smiled when he approached her.

“Thank you for last night,” she whispered, “I really liked the astronomy lesson, even if with my telescope it would have been on another level…”

The prince was suddenly so close, tugging and undoing her pathetic excuse of a turban.

He twisted and tied the piece of fabric around her head and neck, until it formed a perfect Sayan-style headpiece. When he tucked the stray hem at her temple she was glad her face was hidden, because her cheeks were burning.

“There, now you’re a Sayan woman.” he said, his voice low and deep. Then, as if remembering who he was and what was he doing, he scoffed: “Try not to faint on me for the rest of the expedition, will you?”

“I’ll do my best,” she laughed, half embarrassed, half amused by his temporary slip. They rode the rest of the morning in silence, until a rocky horizon took the place of the sandy monochrome of the desert. Bulma guided them through a maze of canyons and gorges, until the group found itself in the middle of ancient ruins. Vegeta watched the princess literally jump down the dromedary, to run towards a pile of rocks and debris.

“Oh. My. God. Have you any idea how ancient these ruins are? And look! There are inscriptions on that wall!” 

“Woman, the spheres!” barked the prince, already losing his patience. Bulma tore herself reluctantly from her beloved ruins, huffing.

“Yes, your highness! It must be over there, in that temple. Follow me.”

The prince dismantled from his horse, leaving his cousins to guard the animals.The couple, entered the ancient temple, Bulma still ogling and squealing at every pebble and sign around her. She was so engrossed with her surroundings, she didn’t notice the enormous hole in the pavement in front of her. Vegeta caught her by the elbow just a moment before the fell.

“Watch where you’re going, woman!” he growled, tightening his grip on her, while she clung to him unconsciously. They watched in silence a rock tumbling down in the darkness, before realizing they were still in each other’s arms. 

“Sorry, uhm… the sphere must be over there,” stammered Bulma, pointing to the remains of an ancient altar. A tremulous ray of light filtered through the vines and the cracks in the collapsed roof, bouncing over the glassy surface of a golden orb. As soon as they walked the three steps that divided them from the sphere, Vegeta reached for it with a slightly tremulous hand. He paused to watch Bulma out of the corner of his eye. She was holding her breath, emotion swirling freely in the depth of her blue eyes, an amazed smile gracing her lips. Swallowing, Vegeta stretched his arm and grabbed the orb. It was smaller than he had imagined, the surface smooth and cold, while inside a little star floated in a sea of shimmer and gold. 

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” whispered Bulma, her fingers hovering on the sphere in awe. Vegeta lost himself in the shreds of gold reflecting in her eyes, sparkling like the stars they watched together the previous night. 

“Yes.”

She smiled taking his other hand, and it was like the whole sky exploded in front of him.

“C’mon, we have other 6 spheres to find. But first,” she added, dragging him outside under the cheerful looks of Goku and Raditz, “let me make a copy of that inscriptions. I will never have another chance like this!”

 

*

 

They returned at the Sayan main camp 4 days later, with a grand total of 2 dragon spheres for the prince and a ton of transcriptions to decypher for Bulma, who managed to raid every ruins they found during their trip. ChiChi and other Sayan women greeted them at the entrance of the camp while the sun was setting, the air already heavy with the smell of roasted meat and sweet dates they were having for dinner. 

“We’re staying 2 days to let the horses rest and refill our supplies, then we’ll leave. So be ready with the new course,” the prince told Bulma, before abandoning the group.

“Wait, where are you going? Dinner will be ready in no time…”

“I have to train, don’t bother me,” he cut short. Bulma watched him walk away, appalled from his strange behaviour. ChiChi, after greeting her husband, was at her side, smiling.

“Don’t worry,” she said, “he rarely eats with the rest of us. We’ll leave something for him. Come now, you must be hungry. And you have to tell me everything about your journey!”

While the group joined the rest of the Sayans at the bonfire, Bulma turned one last time to watch her elusive husband walk away from her once again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! Thank you all for your comments and support!
> 
> Some cultural reference, in case you were wondering. For the Sayan outfit I took as a referral a mix of the Berber/Tuareg style for the men and the Kalbelia one for the Sayan women. Vegeta’s tattoos are also inspired by the Berber facial tattoos, even if their meanings are obviously different.
> 
> The Sayan warrior culture (and the city of Sadala) was influenced a lot by Rajput culture: the Rajputs are pictured in many historical Bollywood movies as a strong warrior ethnic group that lived in the north-west of India, the original Rajasthan. Capsalis and Bulma’s attire have some Greek-influence, instead, and the city has something of Alexandria in its society, culture and architecture.
> 
> There’s also a reference to Fullmetal Alchemist's Equivalent Exchange: other than my love for that comic, I couldn’t make Bulma - a woman of Science - rely on something totally magical. ;)
> 
> As for the languages, I used a lot of Hindi Bollywood songs (I use them and music in general as a soundtrack to create and write), and some Persian music.
> 
> I took something from every culture I had the pleasure to appreciate and that could relate better to the setting of my fictional and historically inaccurate story. This is just fiction, but if you’re interested I encourage you to deepen further your knowledge of these cultures/movies/music/comics.


	5. Wishful thinking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An ancient prophecy is finally revealed. But will Bulma be able to discover its secrets?
> 
> Soundtrack: “Lakh Lakh Thora” by A. R. Rahman, from the movie “Mohenjo Daro”; “Wishful thinking” by Raul Ferrando

 

 

_ “I'll give you some love and peace _

_ I'll give you company for a short time _

_ I'll make your destiny shine _

_ I'll make your intentions slip... oh my! _

_ Whoever looks into my eyes _

_ He throws his heart away at me _

_ I am chaos” _

_ (“Fitoori”,  _ _ Vaishali Made & Sanjay Leela Bhansali _ _ ) _

 

 

Bulma woke up early, well rested after days sleeping on the nude sand. Not that the situation was different in the prince tent, as she was still sleeping on the carpets, but the pile of pillows she gathered in her ‘nest’ was a hell of an improvement. Dressed in her Capsalis attire, a white dress rimmed in gold and blue, Bulma left the tent to find of something to eat. She wandered through the waking camp without a goal, until she heard the harsh sound of weapons clashing. She ran towards the border of the camp, alarmed, only to find the prince and Goku busy beating the shit out of each other with their swords. She was about to shout, when she saw ChiChi waving at her from under a palm tree, smiling as if everything was perfectly fine.

“What’s happening? Why are they fighting and why you’re doing nothing to stop them!?” she asked her sister-in-law.

“Oh, don’t worry: they’re only sparring.” 

Bulma watched with mild horror the brute force with which Vegeta launched himself at Goku, the pure animalistic force and killing purpose behind every vicious blow. Then her attention was sidetracked by the undressed state of the prince, his bare torso glistening in the sun while drops of sweat traced every ridge and crevice on his muscular chest and back. Oh God. Bulma blinked, wondering if another heat stroke was approaching, because her mind was deliberately going down a very dangerous path. One that headed south, more precisely under the prince’s pants, following that mischievous drop sliding down his V-line… 

_ Breathe Bulma, breathe, _ she told herself, not wanting to faint another time in front of him. 

She heard ChiChi clearing her voice. 

“I see now you get why I don’t want to stop them…” she said, a wicked grin twisting her lips. Bulma was pretty sure her face was redder than any Sayan fabric.

“I… I was just watching his tattoos. They’re… peculiar. I saw many Sayans with tattoos like that, but no one have them all over their body. Do you know what they mean?”

ChiChi chuckled, ignoring her not so subtle change of subject.

“It’s an ancient Sayan prophecy. He had the tattoos done before he came back from…you know,” she paused, not wanting to recall the prince imprisonment. 

“But what do they mean?”

“I don’t know, they’re written in the ancient Sayan dialect. Why don’t you ask him?” added ChiChi with a knowing glance that brought the dialogue back where it started.

Luckily for her, Vegeta chose that exact moment to strike the finishing blow, disarming and knocking down Goku for good. The younger Sayan lifted his hands in surrender, one of his stupid smiles already blooming on his face.

“That was a smart move, you got me there, Vegeta.”

“If you could stop to be the clown you are for one second, you would have dodged it.”

“Well, next time…”

“In battle there’s no next time, you fool!”

Bulma and ChiChi approached the two warriors, before they started another fight.

“Ok boys, training time is over,” her sister-in-law said, helping Goku to get up. “Why don’t you go eat something and wait for the sun to set for a rematch?”

Vegeta growled. “No, we’re not done yet. Kakarott, quit the whining and prepare for the attack.”

When Bulma saw a deep red gash on the prince’s forearm, she stepped in. 

“Vegeta, you’re bleeding…”

“It’s nothing.”

She reached for him, ignoring his protests.

“Maybe, but if sand and dirt get in, you’ll get an infection.”

“I said it’s nothing, silly woman! Let me be!”

“Oh, don’t be a baby! Follow me, we have to clean it before it gets worse,” she said, grabbing his hand and dragging him to their tent under the knowing glances of the other couple.

 

*

 

The venomous remark bubbling in his throat died on his lips when Bulma took his hand, like she had done in that cave. His body followed her like a hypnotized snake, an inexplicable pull Vegeta had yet to find a way to resist. They walked hand in hand, cutting through the camp, until the prince’s attention was caught by a strange structure, taller than the other tents. Bulma turned, feeling him stopping in his tracks.

“Oh, they completed it faster than I thought,” she said, following his perplexed gaze.

“What’s that thing and what has it to do with you?”

“I had it made while we were away for our little sphere-hunting trip. It’s a Water Tree I designed some time ago,” she smiled, proud and excited like a child. “Wanna see it?”

She didn’t wait for his answer, tugging his hand once again towards their new destination.

Closing the distance, Vegeta recognize the structure was made of intertwined reeds. It was shaped after a giant jar, roughly 2 meters tall, with a fine net hung inside, made to follow the shape of the skeleton. Under the whole structure, there was a large vase, already full of water, while other small rivulets dropped from under the net. This time the prince couldn’t mask his stupor. 

“Someone calls it ‘the tree of life’ but it’s too pretentious for me…” said Bulma, grinning in front of his bewilderment.

“How…?”

“Oh, it’s quite simple. Due to the great difference in temperature between night and day, the air condensates, transforming in water. This net simply capture these particles, and makes them slide down and in the vase, so every morning you’ll have up to 20 gallons of water, without even digging a well or wandering to find a water source. And I designed it portable, so you can dismantle and rebuild it in 2 days at most. What do you say?”

The prince was speechless. She had been in the camp for less than one week, and she managed to solve one of their greatest problem with some sticks and a net. And two dragon spheres were already in his hands. Vegeta watched the strange and fascinating woman in front of him, realizing her mind was indeed the most precious treasure in the world. She couldn’t fall in Frieza’s hands, no matter what. 

“Well? Have I rendered you speechless?” she winked. “I’m honored.”

Vegeta schooled back his features to his trademark scowl, suddenly ashamed of his display.

“It’s a fine trick. But don’t you ever use my men to build your playthings without my permission.”

Bulma snorted, her smile dying on her lips like a flower in the desert. Good.

“Agreed, your highness,” she muttered, taking once again his hand. “Now come, before I decide to leave you here bleeding to death.”

The prince watched her white hand, so small and delicate in stark contrast with his dark and calloused one. It was a simple hand, flesh and bones attached to a mere foreign woman. A hand that could create wonders, maybe even a weapon so powerful to destroy Frieza. The same dangerous hand that managed to cast a spell on him with every touch and brush. His fingers flexed, rebelling to his will and refusing to let go of her until they reached the tent.

 

*

 

Bulma cleaned his wounds in silence, applying some ointment she retrieved from her bag. Seated on his bed, the prince didn’t even flinch when she started to tend other cuts and welts on his shoulders and chest.

“You did a number on yourself. I thought you and Goku were going to kill each other for real.”

“One day I will,” he growled, “if he doesn’t start to take this seriously. I have to become stronger, and that fool is one of the few passable fighters around here...”

Bulme felt him froze when her fingers hovered gently on a cut on his upper lip.

“Become stronger so you can fulfill the prophecy?”

He turned hastily, catching her wrist.

“What do you know about it?”

Bulma shrugged, carrying on her treatment, even with her hand still trapped in his grip.

“Nothing, to be honest. But I’d really like to know.”

I really want  _ to know you, _ she added mentally, fixing her blue eyes in his onyx ones.

“Who knows,” she added in a whisper, reaching again for his face, “I might even help you reach your goal. You saw what I’m capable of, after all…”

Doubt danced on his features, his lips burning her fingers. She hoped not to blush too much under his intense gaze; every time he watched her, it was like he wanted to conquer and grasp all her secrets. But she was equally eager to discover his own: her fingers itched to follow the uncharted and still unknown trail on his body. Just for pure scientific reasons, obviously. 

He sighed and when his eyes dropped to her lips, she knew victory was hers.

“Fine. But you’ll not utter a word about it outside of this tent. Is it clear?”

She nodded, too eager to speak, afraid the quiver in her voice might betray her or break the spell her prince was under.

“It’s an ancient legend about the original Sayan. In the beginning he was a powerful creature, a demigod called Ozaru. But then the other gods got jealous and cut his heart out, separating his human form from the god-like and more powerful one. From then on Ozaru and his heirs, the Sayans, were condemned to live as mere humans, having lost their true nature. But,” added the prince, smirking, “the prophecy says that if a Sayan can find his lost heart he would once again transform in the perfect being, conquering the power of Ozaru.”

“So you need the dragon spheres to unlock that power...” 

Vegeta turned to her, eyes suddenly smoldering and alive.

“I worked hard all my life to survive, to get stronger. It’s my destiny: I imprinted it on my skin to claim it and it will be mine.”

“And if fate would not grant it to you?” asked Bulma, holding her breath.

She felt his lips curling under her fingers in a dangerous smile.

“I’ll write my own destiny.”

Her fingers dropped, tracing the tattoo on his chin, a trident underlined by a curved line. She watched it for a long time, mesmerized.  

“Maybe you just have to read it the right way,” she said, once again meeting his eyes. “Let me decipher your tattoos. Ancient prophecies often hides the truth between words and riddles, and only those who can read between the lines can find the key to fully understand. I could do it. I will, for you.”

 

*

 

She was so close, her presence intoxicating. In the shadows of the tent, her eyes were dark, only rimmed in blue, pupils dilated and gleaming with glimpses of the future and victory. His victory.

Vegeta blinked and pushed her away, trying to break the strange spell her sole presence cast upon him. He put on a new tunic without looking at the woman in his bed, trying to erase the lingering ghost of her touches from his skin and lips.

Then, after a deep breath, he gave in:

Vegeta left without looking back, her screeches of joy already making him regret his decision. 

 

*

 

Bulma was exhilarated. She literally inhaled her food and excused herself early from the gathering by the fire, eager to start her new project. She loved those moments, the thrill of a new discovery, her brain pleasantly buzzing with ideas, challenged by the unknown. In this case, the secrets of an ancient prophecy, the key to an immense power. And, hopefully, the key to her elusive Sayan husband. Well, fake husband. Fake, tattooed and soon to be half naked husband… Wait, what? She blushed, arranging her tools beside her on the bed: nibs, ink and pieces of parchment ready to be filled of Knowledge.

When the prince returned to his tent, she welcomed him with a genuine smile. He was shirtless, drops of water from his shower still glistening on his dark skin, his tattoos wriggling at every movement like ink snakes, steering her gaze lower... 

She swallowed.  _ Focus Bulma, focus on the Knowledge. _

She forced her eyes to fix on his black ones: his expression was wary, and he was still at the entrance of the tent, clearly uncomfortable.

She patted the soft covers on the bed. “Come on. I don’t bite.”

Vegeta snorted and came closer, drying his skin with a tattered piece of fabric. 

“Said the snake…”

Bulma rose and grabbed his hand, but he snatched it away as if her touch burned. 

“I’m not a snake,” she said, reaching again for his fingers. Her thumb grazed his ruined knuckles, a soft caress he eyed with an uncertain gaze. When she gently traced the symbols on the back of his hand with her thumb, she felt him shiver. 

“It’s just me.”

 

*

 

Vegeta exhaled, trying to clear his hazy mind. This... _thing_ , wasn't going as planned.

“Just... hurry and get over with it, we are leaving tomorrow at dawn and I’m tired.”

Bulma rolled her eyes, but she surrendered, sitting again on the bed and pulling him along with her. The prince settled with his back against the pillows, cringing just a little under her scrutiny.

“Ok, prince of all spoilsports. Let’s do this.” 

Bulma dipped the nib in a small bottle of ink. “Tell me more about these symbols. Where do I start reading? What language are they? Who tattooed you? And-” 

“Enough,” he interrupted, his patience thinning by the minute. “I got the prophecy tattooed when I was away… there was this old man, a Sayan imprisoned by Frieza. He told me about the legend and offered to write it on me. He said written words held more power than forgotten tales.”

“It’s written in the ancient Sayan language. Every traditional tattoo is done this way.” added Vegeta after a while.

“You mean like the ones all of your people have on their chin and forehead?”

Vegeta absently traced the symbol on his face, the same one she touched in the morning. His skin tingled at the memory.

“These are the symbols of our various clans. The emblem of the mother’s family goes here,” he added pointing towards his forehead, “and the father’s one on the chin. So everyone knows where do you come from. So you always remember who you are.”

She smiled sadly, copying the two symbols on the parchment, side by side. 

“It’s very poetic.”

The prince scoffed.

“It’s only tradition.” 

Who was he trying to fool? Those tattoos meant so much more to him. They had been his anchor, his own link to his lost home for so long. When Frieza discovered their true meaning, he used his face as a punching ball, just to teach him a lesson. He took the beating without complaining, as a true Sayan.

Her touch on his shoulder nearly made him jump. So much for the true Sayan.

“So, where do I start from?” she asked, oblivious of his inner turmoil.

Vegeta pointed his chest: over his heart, several fluid lines and intertwined traits drew a heavy decorated hand-shaped tattoo. Smaller traits filled the voids: some of them were dark flames, others resembled stylized arrows.

“This is the Ozaru ensign. It’s a seal the gods gave him when they took his heart away.”

He watched her scribbling some note on the parchment, her focus sharp and unfaltering.

“The old man started drawing the tattoo from my left shoulder,” Vegeta added after a minute.  “Then the right arm, the back and the legs. I think this is the right order.”

Bulma nodded, following the line of symbols on his arm with a finger, as if she was reading him like a book. Vegeta watched her closely, observing her movement and the increasing lines of ink blooming on the parchment. Her writing was tiny and messy, and her thumb was already stained with ink. She copied symbol after symbol, asking for their meaning and writing notes on her paper, rolling each foreign word on her tongue like a treat. He didn’t know why, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from her. 

Vegeta was royalty, even as a prisoner he was still a member of Frieza’s court: he was accustomed to being around beautiful women, the Emperor always surrounded by the most alluring and exotic concubines from far away places. But beauty held no power over him, too many times left dangling before his eyes, always out of his reach. But this woman was different. Something he couldn’t pinpoint was luring him in, drawing him towards her like a moth to a flame. 

Her eyes were shining, and he recognized in them the same excitement he felt when challenged in a great battle, but her gaze was softened by true interest and her fingertips grazed his skin in awe and devotion, as if his history and his beliefs were truly sacred. As if he was worthy, more.

He waited, still as a stone, not wanting to break this strange bubble of comfort and quiet, with the scratching of the nib as the only sound punctuating the silence of the sleeping campsite. He answered her questions quietly, his voice barely a whisper as if they were exchanging secrets in the blue shadow of the night.

And when his head lolled back, hers was already laid on his shoulder, eyes closed, lips parted in abandon and her hair drawing new lines on his skin.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little Science moment: the Water Tree really exists! :D
> 
> It’s called Warka Water and it’s currently used in Ethiopia to help locals gather more potable water in the most difficult locations. It’s a little different in its materials and measures, but it works in the same way, by condensing the air and exploiting the thermal shock between day and night.
> 
> One more thing: the dialogue about fate and destiny is inspired by a line from the Bollywood movie "Bajirao Mastani", a wonderful historical love story I absolutely ADORE. 
> 
> Thank you all for your support, comments and advice! <3 <3 <3 These are busy days for me at work, but I hope I will manage to keep up with at least a weekly update from now on.


	6. Under the veil of the past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who is the Demon and who is the man?  
> All they need is a moment of danger, a moment of truth. 
> 
> Soundtrack: “Le reel du combat” by Maz, “Inshallah” by Sting

 

 

_ “Torture, affliction, reproach, calamity _

_ In your love, what it is that we did not face?” _

_ (“Ishq - Love and the veil” _ , Niyaz)

  
  


Bulma checked her compass for the tenth time and stifled a sigh. After hours surfing on the dunes, she was utterly bored. She had tried to spot some of the stars the prince had showed her some nights before, but the scorching sun was too high and bright for her eyes to bear. Even Goku and Raditz, after a first moment of banters and playful jokes, were now quiet as Prince Vegeta, that led the small group towards the horizon. The prince had been silent the whole trip, ignoring her after she had given him the coordinates to find the new Dragon Sphere. They had been riding tirelessly, since the first lights of the day had filtered in the royal tent, cutting through her peaceful dreams and drawing golden patterns on the prince’s asleep face. 

Hidden underneath her thick turban, she blushed at the memory of that morning. She had woken up to the steady sound of Vegeta’s breathing, her cheek on the warm expanse of his chest, just above his heart. His expression had been so peaceful and innocent, she had held her breath, watching him in silence not to break the moment. But then Vegeta had stirred and by the time his eyes had opened, he had bolted up from his bed, pushing her away. He had ignored her since then, speaking only to tell her to hurry up, so they could leave.

And there they were, once again on their horses, entering an unknown city in the middle of nowhere. Aghraba, that was the name Guku has told her, as they were approaching the decadent outskirts of the city.

As the group entered the main walls of Aghraba, the prince stopped his animal and let Bulma and Goku pass in front of him.

“What’s happening?”, Bulma asked Goku, following him at the head of their small convoy.

“It’s better if we keep Vegeta’s identity a secret in here,” whispered the younger Sayan. “So if someone asks, you’re with me, and he and Raditz are our escort.”

“And keep your hair and face covered: you stand out like a sore thumb,” seethed Vegeta, from behind her. 

She narrowed her eyes at him, checking her turban and tucking more securely the stripe of cloth on her face nonetheless. They left their mounts at the entrance of the city, and Bulma checked her compass once again. The sphere was near, the needle quivering and pointing to the lower part of the city, where a myriad of stalls and stands merged together and filled the narrow streets of Aghraba with colors and cries. 

She nervously looked over her shoulder to her Sayan escort, nodding towards the crowded marketplace. 

“We’re near. Follow me,” she said.

The Souk buzzed with life, a multi color patchwork of people, merchandise and vendors, the smell of food and perfumes so strong it made her head spin. Everyone was screaming, the merchants to attract the client’s attention, the buyers bargaining and complaining about the prices. She pushed through the colorful alley, her eyes jumping from stand to stand, shining in front of the sheer amount of unknown goods.

She nearly got lost, steered away by a promising stand full of parchments and books, when a hand clamped her forearm.

“Don’t dawdle, you have a job to do!” seethed Prince Vegeta in her ear, pulling her back on her previous track. 

“I know, let go of me!”, she retorted, shrugging off his grip.

She discreetly checked the compass once again and stopped in her track. In front of her stood an unsteady stall, jewels and trinkets overflowing from several baskets while medallions and tiaras hung loosely from its ruined tent. The vendor beamed at her evident interest, but before he could approach her with his blabbing, she gripped Goku’s arms and smiled at him. 

“You never buy me something nice!” she complained, loud enough for everyone around them to hear. 

Goku gaped at her, completely at loss, while Raditz snickered behind him. 

She rolled her eyes and elbowed him discreetly, trying to make him follow her lead.

Luckily the vendor stepped in, rubbing his hands in anticipation.

“My Lord, I have just the thing for you and your beautiful bride. Such a fine Lady can’t go without proper adornment. Please, follow me!” he tweeted, pulling a still stuttering Goku towards his merchandise. 

Bulma beamed, batting her eyelash and launching him her most sweet and adoring look. 

“Thank you, my love, my sweetheart... I’ll look for something I like over there!” she chirped, while the merchant showed her poor friend jewel after necklace after earrings.

She dropped her facade, and dove elbow deep in the first basket in front of her. She felt Vegeta beside her, who must have understood her intentions and was already scanning the nearby display of trinkets with nervous eyes. 

The sphere was there, somewhere. But they had to be quick, or they would have drawn suspicion: a group of Sayans overturning a jewel shop seemed to her an unlikely sight.

The merchant and Goku were still chatting, her friend finally aware of his task: buying her time. 

“So you’re the almighty Sayans! I recognized your clothing… Say, did Frieza’s Djinn really return?”, asked 

Bulma stopped in her ministrations, her attention suddenly sidetracked to the conversation behind her. Djinn, if she recalled correctly, meant Demon. Who was this man - or infernal being - they were talking about?

Goku shrugged, feigning a sudden interest in some old rings, while Vegeta, still at her side, tensed visibly.

“Nah… We get asked that a lot nowadays, but it’s only a legend. Maybe the Emperor doesn’t want to admit his best General was killed in a battle or something like that.” 

“I know for sure he’s dead,” interjected Raditz, narrowing his threatening eyes at the vendor. “And it’s better this way. He’s a disgrace to all of us Sayans, and we don’t like to speak about him. Understood?”

The man swallowed and was suddenly busy tidying his small stall and searching for something else to show Goku.

Bulma concentrated once again on her tasks, her eyes scanning a second basket full of jewelry and trinkets. Something glimmered in the bottom, and Bulma dove in to grab it. A round and cold object grazed her hand, and she closed her fingers on their third Dragon Sphere. She grabbed the first jewel she found near her - a hideous necklace made of bones and fringes - lifting it up for the vendor to see.

“How much is this one?” she asked him, at the same time hiding the sphere in the folds of her dress. 

“Oh, my Lady, you have a fine taste for beauty. This piece is an ancient handwork, the most precious jewel of my merchandise,” he said, once again cheerful and sugary.

She inwardly rolled her eyes. She could have picked any trinket of the shop, and it would have been the most precious of them all. 

“So? How much?”

“300 rupees, only for you.”

She momentarily lost her composure, hearing the exaggerated price.

“What?” she shrieked, “It’s hardly its value!”

“Well, it’s ancient and…”

“Oh, please! It’s a Moghul rosary, hardly 20 years old!”

She felt Vegeta hand close on her wrist, while he took the necklace from her hand. 

“We take it,” he growled.

Goku suddenly remembered his role and stepped in.

“Yes, as my friend said. Here,” he added, putting the money on the vendor’s hand. “Whatever a lady wants, she can have it, right my friend? Better not make her wait, she’s a Sayan after all” he added, winking to the merchant. The man nodded, his smile cracking at the seams.

“Indeed, my Lord.”

They left in a hurry, Vegeta never leaving her side.

“A princess pilfering? Really?” he whispered to her, mirth tinging his deep voice.

“Oh, give me a break!” she protested, smirking back. “He would have never given us the sphere for a lower price, and we did pay him a lot more than what was due for that atrocity.  Plus,” she added, whispering, “a group of Sayans leaving with a strange sphere could draw suspicion, don’t you think?”. 

“Correct, so stop attracting attention with your historical babbling.” he retorted.

Bulma snorted and eyed her surrounding once more: nobody seemed to be staring at them, but she could feel many glances behind her back, oozing fear, suspicion and mistrust. 

“I think you Sayans don’t go unnoticed by default, apparently…” she whispered, checking once again the state of her turban and securing the stripe of cloth hiding her face. Her impression was confirmed when a shout reached their ears.

“Hey you, Sayan scum! You’re not welcome here. Crawl back in your desert hole.”

Bulma tensed: four soldiers were approaching the group, their spear already lifted. She recognized the Saiba insignia on their shields, a reign formally under the Emperor’s rule. What were they doing, picking up fights with civilian instead of protecting the city?

“No problem, we’re leaving.” said Goku smiling, while Raditz and Vegeta slowly shifted preparing for an attack. The prince’s body was shielding her from the guards’ gaze, but she could hear them approaching, ignoring Goku’s statement. 

“Listen,” she heard Vegeta whisper, “As the fights starts, you run to the horses and get out of here.”

“And you?”

“We will find you afterwards. Don’t let them take you… or the sphere.” he grumbled.

“But…”

“Stop arguing and do as I said!” he growled as the soldiers launched on them.

Bulma was pushed backwards, but when she turned towards the prince, he had already drawn his sword. “Run, dammit!” he shouted her.

Startled by the heavy clash of the swords and the battle cries, she followed the frightened mob and ran. In the distance she could see the high walls of the city and the main entrance, where their horses were. Struggling not to fall and be trampled by the panicked mob, she turned in a small alley, trying to pick the right direction in the maze of the Souk.

Suddenly alone, she stumbled and fell. A hand grabbed her just in time, and she turned smiling.

“Veg-”

It was not the prince, but a scarred giant, surrounded by a strange group of men. 

“Well, what do we have here? Isn’t she a fine Sayan lady, guys?” he laughed, his grip bruising her arm. 

“Fine? I don’t know, Amondo,” snickered the shortest of them. “I heard Sayan women are more muscular than us and… they have a beard!”

“Well, we have to check, don’t we?” snickered the boss. “Let’s see if she’s ugly as a monkey or if we can sell her for a good price...”

Among the men’s laughter, the one named Amondo reached for her turban. Bulma tried to struggle, but it was useless. The moment her blue hair flowed free from the red fabric, the group of criminals fell silent.

“She’s not a Sayan!”

“No,” added another one, rubbing his hands, “but this beauty will make us rich!”

“Wait, Lakasei,” Amondo smirked, licking his lips. “I think we earned some fun before business, don’t we?”

He grabbed Bulma’s face without gentleness and reached for the front of her tunic, ripping it open. The princess swallowed, gripping the man’s wrist to prevent his thick fingers to dig in her cheeks. She couldn’t scream, so she waited until he was near enough, then she turned and bit his fingers, kicking and punching everything in her reach while the man cursed.

“Let me go, you son of a-”

A violent slap made her head jerk, and she was thrown head first onto the near wall. As she smacked the nude stone with her skull, the world spun before her eyes and she struggled uselessly yo get up. Amondo pushed her down to the ground, his massive body nearly choking the air out of her. 

“You insolent bitch! I’ll teach you some manners...”

Bulma couldn’t breathe, her head pulsed, and she felt something liquid and warm dripping down her scalp. Panic twisted her insides, but she refused to give up. She tried desperately to free herself, while the man pushed his hand on her mouth and ripped her tunic further. Suddenly she heard a strangled cry, and she felt Amondo pause in his ministrations. “What the-”

The man’s question was answered by the sickening swish of a sword, while his severed head tumbled at Bulma’s feet. She gasped in horror, her eyes fixed on the blood spilling from the dismembered body. When another set of hands dragged her up, she screamed, ready to fight back for her life, but she found herself in front of the enraged face of the Sayan prince.

His turban was still on its place but even if his cloak and clothes were dirty and messy, he seemed unharmed. Her dress, on the other hand, was in pieces, her cheek throbbed, and she could feel her own blood dripping on her ruined tunic. She was a mess, but her assailants were in much worse conditions. Corpses were scattered all around them, their blood staining the street and Amondo’s head still at her feet. 

Vegeta stood before her, supporting her dead weight with steady hands, but his gaze was cold and soulless as a stone. 

Bulma suddenly understood: Frieza’s Djinn, the Emperor’s best General. It was him. 

“You were supposed to run, not get yourself caught!” Vegeta growled, shaking her.

She pushed him away, suddenly afraid. Who was this man, this demon, that slaughtered five people without blinking? The prince reached for her once again, but something in her expression must have shown her terror, because his hand stilled mid-air. 

Bulma leaned to the wall, shaking, while Vegeta bent to collect her discarded turban. He slowly approached her again, tying and arranging the piece of fabric on her head, around her neck and shoulders. He covered her with his cloak and searched her eyes.

“We have to leave. You can walk, right?”

His eyes were still dark, but filled with concern, no trace of the Demon in their depth. 

Bulma nodded, grabbing his arm for support, as they quickly joined Raditz and Goku at the entrance of the city.

 

*

 

Vegeta was fuming. Even cleaning his sword, a task he took great pleasure in, was doing nothing to improve his mood. Several miles separated them from Aghraba, and Goku and Raditz were busy roasting some meat on the bonfire as the sun was finally surrendering to the night above their little campsite. The tension, around him, was palpable. 

The incident in the Souk and the bloodshed that followed, had somewhat ruined the mood, even if the third dragon sphere was now in his hands, safely tucked away. And if usually after a fight he was content and pleasantly worn out, this time a nagging feeling of frustration and irrational wrath was constantly twisting his gut.

It was all the woman’s fault, as usual. She couldn’t follow a simple order, even if her life depended on it. Run away and don’t get caught. Simple as that. And what did she do? She got herself kidnapped by a gang of street scum, that nearly had their way with her.

That nearly killed her, had he not arrived in time.

Vegeta scrubbed furiously his blade, gripping the handle with so much force his knuckles went livid. Even worse, the woman hadn’t uttered a single word since their departure from Aghraba. She hadn’t even removed her turban nor the cloak he lent her, and was currently curled in a ball by the fire, her gaze lost and unfocused in the distance. Her cheek was swollen and red, and she must have a cut somewhere on her scalp because blood was starting to stain the crimson fabric wrapped around her head. Goku had offered many times to have a look at her wounds, but she wouldn’t listen to reason. He could understand her, wounded pride and all, but he had the feeling her sudden silence had more to do with the rotting corpse in that blasted alley. 

She was frightened by him. And while nearly a week ago the mere thought of shutting her up was a mirage in the desert, now her silence was getting on his nerves even more than her pestering questions. 

“You two,” he snapped at Goku and Raditz. “Go feed the horses. I’ll call you if you’re needed.”

They left without saying a word, clearly relieved to be free from the heavy tension.

Vegeta slowly joined Bulma by the fire, watching her tense visibly as he sat down next to her. 

“Let me see that gash on your head, before you faint from blood-loss.” he grumbled, reaching for her turban.

She flinched at his touch, but let him loosen the fabric and reveal the mess underneath. Her hair was stuck over her temple, encrusted with blood and dirt, and she winced when he gently peeled the cloth from her wound.

“I’ll grab some water.” 

As Vegeta got up to retrieve her bag of medicine, she discreetly wiped away a stray tear from her swollen cheek, but he pretended not to notice. He remembered that feeling from his childhood: the need to cry but the greater need to prove himself that he was stronger than that. He sat down once again in silence, averting his gaze from her watery eyes. 

The prince cupped her cheek, tilting her head to the side to let some water pour over her wound, gently scrubbing at the hair nearby to clean it. When the bleeding stopped, he tried to make sense of the various flasks and bottles she kept in her bag, failing miserably.

“The antiseptic is this one,” she whispered pointing at the green vial she had used on his own wounds some days ago. 

He softly dabbed the ointment on her cut, gently twisting her blue tresses to the side of her neck to keep them from getting in the way. It was so strange: him, the infamous Djinn, tending to a woman’s scratches. His blood-stained hands, so accustomed to take lives, now trembling in gentleness while healing someone else’s wounds.

He was so absorbed in his thought he didn’t notice when her eyes focused on him: in the depth of her blue orbs he could read the same question.

“As Frieza’s prisoner, I learned very soon to be useful,” he whispered, his gaze once again focused on her wound. “Because the alternative was rotting in a prison cell and never seeing the light of the day again.”

She lowered her eyes and her brows furrowed, but she didn’t speak. So Vegeta continued: “As the heir of a warrior tribe, even if I was a child at the time, I was assigned to the Imperial Army. It was kill or get killed.”

Gently, so gently, he applied some ointment on her red cheek, and under her uncertain gaze it occurred to him he had never caressed someone like that. 

“I’m not proud of what I’ve done under Frieza’s control,” Vegeta added, searching for her eyes. “But I would have done anything to survive. Even if it meant becoming a Djinn.”

Her bottom lip quivered, but she didn’t let the tears leave her eyes. Vegeta felt an inexplicable surge of pride choking him. 

He didn’t know why, but he wanted her to know, to understand. As foolish as it might seem, he didn’t want to be watched in fear anymore. Not by her. 

The prince brushed a loose strand of blue hair behind her ear. It was soft under his calloused fingertips, as it had been that morning when he had woken up with her hair draped on his shoulder and her warm skin above his heart. When their eyes met, hers were once again alive and swirling with emotion. 

He shook his head, clearing his voice.

“I’ll go check on the brothers, so you can change your clothes…”

He stood up, but her hand on his own stilled him.

“Thank you” she said, her voice nearly a whisper but steadier than before.

He nodded and left her alone.   

 

*

 

She was running through the maze of the Souk, heart pounding in her chest like a war drum. A sickening terror clawed at her insides, as she stumbled and flee. But corpses slowed her down and more than once she nearly slipped on the blood flowing through the streets.

Suddenly, a hand grabbed her, fingers clamping on her throat. She couldn’t scream nor breathe, as her heart tried to burst out of her ribcage like a frightened bird. The Djinn’s dark eyes bore through her, their wrath stabbing her chest like a spear, as his lips curled in a cruel smirk. 

Bulma woke up suddenly, a scream dying in her throat as she struggled to breathe. Their temporary campsite greeted her in the darkness of the night, the orange light of the bonfire gently tracing her companions’ silhouettes. She tensed at the sight of the prince, that laid beside her on his mat.

He was asleep, his trademark scowl softened and the sharp line that cut through his eyebrows smoothed out by slumber. Bulma forced her breathing to slow down until it synced with his own, trying to chase away the hunting memory of her dream and replace it with the prince’s relaxed expression.

With the uncertain, feather-like touch of a finger, she reached out to trace his severe profile, from the symbol on his forehead, along the sharp line of his nose and the unusual plump outline of his lips, to the royal crest imprinted on his chin. His warm and steady breath bounced on her fingers. It was the same face of her dream, and yet so different. 

Who was this man in front of her? How many secrets she had yet to unveil to finally know him?

“I wouldn’t wake him up, if I were you. He can be a real pain in the ass when he’s grumpy…”

Bulma jerked back, startled, at Raditz’s whispered remark. He sat by the fire, awake for his turn of watch duty. She tried to calm her rabbiting heart and the spreading redness on her cheeks before joining him. 

“I wasn’t… I had a bad dream.” she confessed.

“Oh, want me to chase it away for you, princess?” he smirked.

Bulma ignored the joke and swallowed: “It was about him.”

This time Raditz remained silent, suddenly concentrated on drawing messy lines on the sand with the tip of his sword.

Bulma let the heat of the fire seep through the chill she felt inside, tightening the heavy cover she slept in around her shoulder. She bit the inside of her lips and counted to 10 before speaking again.

“Why did he came back?”

Raditz watched her for a long time, his eyes darting occasionally to the sleeping prince. In front of her sheer determination, he finally sighed, scratching his wild mane nervously.

“He’ll kill me if he finds out I told you this, so mind your tongue…”

“I promise.”

Raditz glanced one last time the motionless form of the prince.

“He didn’t choose to come back. It simply happened,” he added after a while. “I presume you know Vegeta was part of Frieza’s Imperial Army. He wasn’t a simple soldier: for his skills, he was one of the Emperor’s best Generals, quite infamous if you ask me. He was known as the Djinn, the demon. He never told us the details, so no one knows which tales are true and which ones are exaggerated legends. Anyway, some years ago, he was ordered to attack a Sayan group that was traveling too close to the Empire borders...”

Raditz took a swig from a canteen he kept at his belt, stopping the nervous motion of his sword.

“Goku was in that group,” he continued. “He was escorting some survivors to our main camp when Vegeta’s unit attacked. My brother led his men well, but in the end it was his duel with the prince that ended the battle: he defeated him.”

Bulma’s brows furrowed, and she couldn’t keep herself from turning towards the unaware prince, still sleeping peacefully on his mat.

“I know. Shocking, right?” chuckled Raditz, looking fondly at his snoring brother. “Well, Nappa told us afterwards Vegeta had refused to lead the attack and Frieza hadn’t been happy about it. The prince had probably taken one hell of a beating before the battle and that would explain his poor conditions when Goku fought him. Anyway, Goku had recognized him, so he pretended to give him the finishing blow and when Frieza’s army scurried away, he hid Vegeta among the others survivors and brought him home. Nappa fueled the rumors about Vegeta’s death and eventually escaped himself, faking his own death shortly afterwards.” 

Before Raditz could take another swig at his canteen, Bulma grabbed it, taking a tentative sip. The alcohol burned her throat, but it helped her to fight the urge to throw up.

“Woah, easy princess, this stuff is strong!” Raditz whispered nervously, taking back the bottle.  

Eyes fixed on the flame, Bulma took a deep breath. That explained the strange relationship between the prince and Goku, their constant challenges and sparring sessions. The younger Sayan was Vegeta’s former enemy and his savior at the same time, a source of humiliation as well as freedom. Only a question remained.

“Why does he call him Kakarott?”, she finally asked.

Raditz chuckled: “Oh, don’t ask him that, if you value your life…”

He took another swig of liquor.

“Kakarott is my brother’s real name, but since he brought Vegeta home he’s known as Goku. It means  _ The hero of the East _ , because that’s where the battle between them took place.”

The prince stirred, and both Bulma and Raditz froze, not daring to breathe until they were sure Vegeta was still asleep.

“It’s better if we stop our little chit chat, princess. I’d like to wake up in the morning with my head still attached at my neck...” whispered the Sayan, swallowing.

She got up nodding, tiredness finally clinging at her limbs like molasses.

She snuggled once again on her mat, her face only few inches away from Vegeta’s.

Who was this prince in front of her? A man, a demon, or a lost creature? The last hope of a tortured tribe or the emblem of its defeat? Every passing day she discovered a new side of him, both terrible and pure; he was a landscape constantly changing, like the desert when the hot wind molded the dunes. She could only get glimpses of it, peeking through the small cracks of his impenetrable defenses, or watching him from behind the veil of his past. 

But sometime she could see him reaching out and lifting that blurred barrier just for her to see, with the same uncertainty and tenderness he had brushed the hair from her face some hours before. 

One thing she knew for sure: even if filled with cruelty, blood and struggles, his past had made him who he was, in the same way his tattoos told him where he came from and showed him his path, his future and goal from now on. 

She watched the prince beside her for a long time, until she felt her eyes fluttering close. 

When sleep finally took her, Vegeta’s peaceful face imprinted on the inside of her eyelids, she dreamed again of the Djinn, but his eyes were dark and smoldering with something different from rage and his soft lips were whispering her name, hovering on her burning skin through the insubstantial nothingness of a veil.  

  
  


 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay. Real life smashed my free time in this past week, I had barely the time to sit and think about this story. I had to get my plot line straight and solve some plot holes before continuing. Here I am now, hoping to get back to my weekly update.
> 
> Thank you for your many comments and support: you're awesome, giving me the right motivation to continue this beautiful but sometimes hard journey! <3


	7. Map of sorrow, signs of hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life leaves marks on you: wear them with pride.
> 
> Soundtrack: “Nainowale ne”, Neeti Mohan and Sanjay Leela Bhansali from “Padmaavat” movie; “Taking flight” by Desert Dwellers

 

 

_ “ _ _ Your beautiful, captivating eyes  _

_ disturbed the still waters of my heart _

_ They made it spill, overflow _

_ They took away my peace, my nights, my sleep _

_ I dance with every step I take _

_ I have turned bright like a burning flame _

_ With the alcohol your eyes hold _

_ I’ve lost myself in this desire _

_ It took away my peace and sleep” _

 

(“Nainowale ne”,  Neeti Mohan and Sanjay Leela Bhansali)

 

 

His skin was warm under her hands, almost as if he had a fever. But she was the one burning all over, nearly delirious from his caresses, the rough gentleness of his hands while they trailed down her body, towards her throbbing center. The man wore a turban covering his face, but his black eyes shone in the darkness like hot coals. She knew those eyes. Bulma reached for the turban, wanting to see him but his hand stilled her. He twisted her wrist over her head and without breaking eye contact, bowed until she could feel his hot breath on her lips, through the fabric of the veil. She wetted her lips, writhing under him in raving frenzy. The raw need to bare the stranger in front of her was so strong, it pulsed through her body, pooling between her legs and burning her blood. 

“Please…” she rasped through her dry throat, in a voice so needy she didn’t recognize herself. But the stranger didn’t move. She heard someone calling her name and the warm world she was in started to fade. 

Reality hit her before she could open her eyes. The air was crisp but it lacked the stinging cold of the night, and she could feel the feeble light of the dawn seeping through her closed eyelids. It must be morning already, she thought, trying to dissipate the hazy remains of her dream. A dream that made her flush from head to toes when she finally remembered who it had been about. She opened her eyes to cancel some very inappropriate images of the man from her head, only to find the prince hovering over her, his eyes already fixed on her. Bulma did her best not to look too startled or embarrassed under his scrutiny, ignoring the telltale flushing of her skin.

“Good morning,” she whispered with false nonchalance, her voice cracking. Vegeta grunted but his frown deepened as she got up, trying to rearrange her tousled hair. If she didn’t know better, he seemed almost worried.

“What? Do I have something on my face?” she asked. 

He made a strange grimace and got up silently, to rummage in her bags in search of something.

“Do you have more of that stinky ointment?” he asked after a while.

“Yes, why?”

“Put it on your face before we go,” he ordered. “Your cheek is blue”. 

Bulma’s hand darted to her cheek in horror. A bad choice, given the pang that shot through her entire face from the touch.

“No way…” she muttered, looking desperately for a mirror. When she saw her reflection and the true extent of the damage she let out a scream. 

She vaguely felt Goku and Raditz jump in their cot, suddenly awake. Raditz managed to yank his own mane in the haste, wincing miserably. 

“What the hell is going on?!”

“I didn’t eat the last  _ baklava _ I swear…” mumbled Goku, scratching his head with his eyes still closed.

But Bulma was too horrified by the image in the mirror to pay them attention: the entire side of her face was purple and swollen, painful to the touch. She could tell her cheekbone wasn’t broken, but it was sore and throbbed at every movement. And the bruise… What had they done to her beautiful face?

“Those damn bastards! I’ll kill them,” she shrieked, fuming with rage, “I’ll salt the earth with their remains, I’ll...” 

Then she remembered they were already dead. For real. Courtesy of the prince’s intervention. The same prince that was watching her with a strange glint in his eyes and a smirk plastered on his face.

“What’s so funny?” she seethed, suddenly self-conscious.

His smirk quickly faded into a scowl, and he shrugged, as if caught red-handed.

“Nothing. Hurry up, we have to be back at the main camp by sunset.”

“No we can’t, there’s another sphere nearby,” said Bulma, forgetting, if only for a moment, her hideous appearance. 

She reached for her compass and a piece of parchment with new coordinates written on it, as the prince’s brow quirked at her with a silent question. 

“I couldn’t sleep last night...” she added blushing. She felt Vegeta’s eyes observing her for a long time, before focusing on the new course without saying anything. 

“Do we have enough supplies for 2 more days?” he asked Raditz, instead. 

“We didn’t have the time to stock up in Aghraba,” answered the Sayan, that had already started to dismantle the camp with his brother, “so we have water for a maximum of three days.  _ If _ we ration it carefully.” 

Bulma bit the inside of her cheek in worry. Without water, they were dead, but the fourth sphere was so near... and they couldn’t lose precious time to make the same trip twice.

“We’ll continue with the search,” ordered the prince, giving her back the map. “But no more useless showers,” he added, and Bulma had the feeling the warning was directed at her. It wasn’t her fault if she was the only one around there actually caring for personal hygiene.

“Fine,” she snorted, “I’ll stink as my dromedary. Happy now?”

“I’ll be happy when you’ll be  _ silent  _ as your dromedary,” the prince retorted, turning to gather his possessions.

For the first time at loss of words, Bulma forgot her title and regal upbringing, letting herself go in a childish grimace. She winced as the sudden movement made her cheek hurt even more, oblivious of the prince’s smirk.

*

 

One thing was sure: her untamed and irritating wit was back. And Vegeta wasn’t sure if that was good or bad news. It was indeed an improvement from the night before, when she had hardly spoken at all. Not that he was worried about her, obviously. The only thing that mattered was the sphere hunt and his ascension. Now that Bulma was being herself again, their search could go on without further and unnecessary nuisances. He mounted on his horse, searching in the fading sky a glimpse of his guiding stars and scanning the horizon for a landmark for their new route. If the coordinates given by Bulma were right, the fourth sphere was in the middle of the rocky canyon of Thorghal.

He was still immersed in his calculations when he heard the woman miserable sigh. 

“My face is ruined...” she sulked, arranging her bags on the dromedary’s back.

“Don’t worry Lady B.,” grinned Goku, helping her to mount on the saddle. “You’re still pretty and now your face matches the color of your hair!”

When she _ac_ __c_ identally  _ kicked him in the shin, Vegeta nearly laughed out loud. 

“Oh please, it’s just a bruise, it will fade in two days at most!” snorted Raditz, keeping at a safe distance nonetheless. He joined them while she was finishing to arrange her turban - a task she wasn’t getting any better to accomplish. Without thinking, Vegeta tugged at the hem of the fabric, securing it correctly at her temple, the gesture strangely familiar and soothing. The swollen bruise that dotted her skin was now hidden, but the uncomfortable feeling in his gut didn’t fade away. Especially when she hissed in pain, as he accidentally grazed the cut on her scalp.

“Enough with the whining,” he admonished her, with a tenderness he didn’t know he had in him. “A Sayan wears his battle scars with pride.” 

In front of her widening eyes, the true extent of his words hit him square in the face. She wasn’t a Sayan, hell, she wasn’t even his real wife! Where did that came from?

“I mean,” he added, hastily turning away, “you have to toughen up if you want to pass for a Sayan woman.” 

He heard her giggle, then adding with her strange accent: “Yes, my  _ Saiyyan... _ ”

Her eyes were glinting as if she was laughing at her own joke, one he couldn’t understand. 

Vegeta decided to ignore her, spurning his horse and riding in front of the group to lead the way.

*

They had been wandering in the maze of cliffs and canyons for hours, scanning every rock and pebble, but their target seemed to be well hidden. Bulma checked her compass for the tenth time, but the arrow stubbornly pointed once again toward the same rocky wall they had been turning around countless times.

They were so close and the compass couldn’t be wrong, she reasoned. So there must be something they weren’t seeing.

She dismounted from her dromedary, tossing the reins to Goku, who was near her.

“What are you doing, woman?”, asked the prince, his irritation increasing by the minute.

She squinted at the cliff, her palms skimming the nude rock.

“I’m searching for a way.”

She heard Vegeta exhale once, his patience clearly at its limit. 

“It’s a wall, woman. A fucking wall of rock. Your coordinates must be wrong…”

“My coordinates are always right, you dunce. If the compass says the sphere is behind this wall, we have to search for a way to open it. Now,” she said, turning to the increasingly irritated Sayan prince, “are you going to help me, or do you intend to insult the cliff until it gives up and crumbles at your feet?”

She saw Goku and Raditz turning to one another, then to Vegeta. She noticed with worry the throbbing vein on his forehead, threatening to explode any minute now. Suddenly Goku took the matter in his hands, jumping off his horse and joining Bulma in front of the cliff.

“We’ve been searching nearby for hours. We can at least give it a try,” he shrugged.

She smiled at him, while Raditz joined them, muttering something under his breath.

She was so absorbed in her search, she didn’t hear Vegeta approach until he was at her side, his hand suddenly near hers on the nude rock.

“What are we looking for?” he asked, grumbling.

“A hole or a leak, something similar to a crack but more regular and straight, the signs of an opening. There must be a passage somewhere…”

Suddenly the whole cliff started to tremble. Pebbles and little stones rolled down and around them, and Bulma felt Vegeta’s hand closing on her wrist. She was pulled backwards and the prince’s body was instantly in front of her, shielding her from the falling debris. Over the increasing noise and their stunned silence, she heard Goku’s voice.

“Ops…”

The group turned to the younger Sayan, his hand still on a protruding stone. 

“Goku, what did you do?”, asked Bulma, shouting to outmatch the roaring of the shaking mountain.

“I don’t know! I just touched this stone and it  _ moved _ !”

As to punctuate his words, with a rasping noise, the entire cliff started shifting to the side.

Bulma watched the process, amazed and terrified, from behind Vegeta’s shoulder, unconsciously clenching his hand and earning an almost painful squeeze from him in return. If the prince was equally shocked, she couldn’t say, but he didn’t move an inch, standing his ground in front of her as a cloud of dust and sand, raised by the moving rock, obscured the sky and their sight.  Finally, the trembling stopped, and when the dust settled, a huge opening stood in front of the group. Bulma moved from behind the prince, to approach the entrance of the cave, but his grip on her hand stilled her.

When he realized their hand were still intertwined, he swiftly let her go as if her skin burned. 

“I’ll go first, we don’t know what hides in there…” he murmured, clearly embarrassed, as he dove in the dark mouth of the cave with Bulma and his men right behind him.

*

When his eyes adjusted to the dim light, Vegeta noticed a pile of torches near the entrance. He passed one to Raditz and used his linchpin to light his own. As the flames cleared the space in front of them, he heard Bulma gasp behind him. Glinting in the warm light of the torches, the biggest treasure he had ever seen filled the belly of the cave, almost reaching the roof. Jewels, carpets, gold trinkets, statues and fine decors were crammed one on another, filling every corner of the carved room. Bulma’s shriek woke the prince from his bewilderment. 

“ _For the love of the Gods,_  this is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen!” she said, but she wasn’t referring to the treasure in front of them. When Vegeta turned, he found the woman engrossed in the mechanism that set the rocky door in motion. It was a strange web of ropes and scaffolding, with different rocks used as weights and attached to a system of wheels and rudimentary gears. 

“Whoever invented this, it’s a genius! Look at those tracks!” squirmed Bulma, jumping from side to side, and climbing on the ropes that kept the system together. “It must have taken years to carve them in to the rock... And the levers! Oh Kami, look at those pulleys! The rock outside has activated the weight system, that has pulled the door open and then...” 

After 20 minutes of her scientific babbling, Vegeta was done.

“Woman, we’re here for the sphere!” he barked, still scanning their surrounding. “And keep your voice down, we might have company…”

“Oh please, this place has clearly been uninhabited for years,” she scoffed, already drawing sketches of the opening system on a piece of parchment. “Those statues and decors are ancient and everything is covered by 10 inches of dust at least. The owners must have forgotten this place even existed!”

“I found no one, Vegeta,” Confirmed Raditz, joining his prince after a first tour of the cave. 

“A raiders’ den, it seems… This is one hell of a loot,” reasoned Raditz. “The princess is probably right: this place seems abandoned and those baubles are antiques, indeed.”

Vegeta exhaled slowly. How could they find the sphere in the middle of that chaos?

“Fine. Woman, for the last time, stop with your nonsense and get a move: we’re here for the sphere!”

Bulma held his menacing gaze for a minute, before abandoning her sketches, muttering.

She opened once again her compass, trying to read the needle in the dim light of the torches. Then she pointed to the right, to a pile of furniture, baskets and other amenities.

“The sphere is in that section,” she explained. “I can’t be more specific at the moment, we’ll have to roll up our sleeves and literally dig in there.”

The group got to work, the Sayans with the clean efficiency of their military upbringing, Bulma often distracted by ancient findings and interesting antiques. 

Vegeta was busy moving a heavily decorated trunks out of the way, when he felt Raditz freeze at his side.

“Vegeta… look.”

He let go the trunk, that rolled down a heap of fripperies with a clash, only to find his cousin ogling a piece of armor with his mouth wide open. A piece of armor that bore the Sayan insignia on the chest plate.  He couldn’t believe his eyes.  He vaguely felt Bulma join them, curious. She took the armor from Raditz’s hands, her fingers immediately drawn to the symbol imprinted on the chest plate, the same one Vegeta sported on his chin. His ancestors’ legacy.

“Is this…?” she whispered, handling the armor with infinite care.

Radit’z voice was equally strained: “Yes. It’s our army’s ancient uniform.”

Goku was at their side too, eyes shining with emotions: “Our grandpa had one of these, before Frieza…”

Vegeta swallowed a lump. He hadn’t seen one of these armors since his kidnapping. His own father wore that same outfit the day of the final battle, under the walls of Sadala. He remembered his red cape, attached to the golden brooches of the chest plates, fringes of crimson leather swishing at his waist while his mother got him dressed for battle, putting the decorated helmet on his head. The same helmet Bulma was handing him, eyes shining and a smile so bright that lit the entire cave.

He took it with trembling fingers, watching his own reflection on the shining metal surface. The image of a lost prince of a fallen kingdom stared back, unforgiving. Vegeta tossed the helmet aside, its clatter piercing the silence and vibrating through the whole cave.

“Vegeta! What-?”

“We’re not here to dig out memories and forgotten trinkets,” he growled. “Back to work! We must find that sphere.”

*

They found the dragon sphere a few hours later, in a trunk overflowing with jewels and silver coins. The rest of the day was spent in collecting every valuable item they could pack, loading an unstable chariot they had found in the cave. 

The Sayans worked at a steady rhythm, Goku and Raditz joking and chattering between them while the prince was busy searching for blades and weapons to bring back to his men. Unseen from the others, Bulma collected the Sayan armor and its other pieces scattered around the cave, wrapped it in a carpet and hid it under the other items already settled on the chariot. She didn’t know why the prince had reacted that way to its discovery, but such a fine piece could not go to waste. The Sayan Army wasn’t so well-equipped after all, and they could use some further protection in battle. She had an idea on how to remedy that, but she would have to be discreet and ask for the blacksmith’s help, back at the Sayan camp. In the meantime, she collected how many pieces of iron, bronze and silver she could find in the cave. While she was searching for the last ingredients of her little secret project, she stumbled on a ruined carpet, almost hidden under a pile of dust and sand. The Sayan insignia, embroidered on a corner, caught her eyes, and she immediately crouched to better inspect the piece of tapestry. It was torn and faded in several parts, but she could make out some of the drawings that stood out from the once crimson background. In the center stood a tall figure, a warrior, judging by his sword and shield, encircled by a golden flame. At his feet, several corpses laid scattered on the ground, representing a battle just won. The figure reached for something in the furthest corner of the carpet, a smaller figure that was dragged away by someone or something, but that section of the tapestry was too ruined to discern what was going on. On the opposite corner she saw the same warrior on his knees, with his face hidden behind his hands in despair, the golden flames no more embracing his body. Behind him a hand made of clouds pointed towards a fort, maybe a city, that stood proudly on the top of a rocky mountain, with its tall walls shining in the sun. She was so immersed in her study of the carpet she didn’t feel the prince’s presence behind her. When his tattooed hand suddenly appeared beside hers on the carpet, she nearly jumped. 

“Gods, Vegeta! You startled me,” she gasped, but the prince’s eyes were glued on the tapestry. 

“That’s the Ozaru legend…” he murmured.

Bulma watched once again the warrior in the center of the carpet, his golden hair and strong stance, and she finally recognized the main character of the Sayan mythology. Her eyes slid from the tapestry to the prince’s face: his gaze was serious and sharp, focused on the legendary figure, as trying to grasp its secrets. 

She watched his hand, so near her own and so different, dark skin beside white complexion, tattooed and ruined fingers against her unmarred and jeweled ones. As they were waiting outside the cave, his hand had felt so solid and warm on her own. She had needed that comforting touch, after the chaos of the last two days. And now, maybe, he needed it too. She shifted her arm just a little, her fingers grazing his own, until her hand covered his. 

“ We’ll find a way, ” she whispered, waiting for Vegeta to shake her off and step away from her, as usual. But the prince didn’t do anything of the sort. After a while, he stood pulling Bulma up with him, their hands still intertwined. 

“I know,” he answered, fixing his sharp eyes on her. The same eyes of her dream, sparkling with determination, as the man and the Djinn fused in a single person, in front of her. Still under the prince’s intense gaze, Bulma let go of his hand, rolling the carpet and putting it on the chariot along with their others findings, then she smiled. 

“We have everything we need. Let’s go home,” she said, wondering if that last word held the same meaning for her lost prince. 

*

The return trip was slower, given the extra load and the unstable conditions of the chariot, attached at Raditz’s horse. The Sayans rode all day long, until they arrived to a small oasis in the middle of nowhere, a forgotten place that Goku remembered from one of his past expeditions. The sight of the palm trees and bushes in the orange light of the sunset was welcoming, as the fresh touch of water that flowed by a spring among the rocks. They filled their canteen and Bulma didn’t wait to be alone to discard her turban and splash her face and neck with the cold water. Vegeta found himself distracted and mesmerized by a traitorous drop that slid down her cleavage, disappearing between her breasts. Suddenly the heavy fabric wrapped around his head and neck felt suffocating. He undid his turban and discarded the cloak, mimicking her gesture. 

“You two,” he ordered to his cousins, “prepare the fire, we’re staying here for the night.”

While Goku and Raditz were setting up the camp, Vegeta removed his tunic and proceeded to wash his torso. He wanted to get rid of the dust of the cave and the sand from their ride, still clinging to his skin and starting to itch. A sudden delicate touch along his spine, made him jump. He had completely forgotten the woman, who was still at his side. Why she couldn’t keep her hands to herself?

“I thought we should avoid unnecessary showers?” she joked with a mischievous grin, still drying her skin with her veil. He ignored her jibe, resuming his ministrations, but he could still feel her eyes on his back, following the line of symbols that ran along his spine. He knew what was coming next.

“Will you let me study them tonight?” she asked as he finished cleaning himself, pointing at his tattoos. Vegeta paused to think. The carpet they found on that cave was another piece of the puzzle she had already started to solve, a puzzle that involved the symbols written on his skin that the woman seemed to be so obsessed with. 

He glanced at the brothers, still busy unloading their horses and preparing the bonfire. They wouldn’t disturb them for another hour, more or less, until dinner was ready. He grabbed the woman’s hand, dragging her behind a palm tree with him.

“Do it now and make it quick,” he said to Bulma, who was already retrieving her nib, ink and parchments from her bag, an excited smile already plastered on her face. 

*

The bonfire cracked with life, covered by the distant noise of the brothers’ chit chat, while in the crisp air of the evening, the sweet smell of the juicy dinner teased her empty belly.

The prince sat still as a stone, presenting his bare back to her. Many nights had passed since their last translating session, and after her findings in the cave, Bulma was literally dying to update her notes and continue her research. After the initial struggle with the foreign language, now she understood better the ancient Sayan dialect and with each new symbol and phrase she decoded, the prophecy was starting to have an actual meaning. 

She followed the column of symbols that danced along Vegeta’s spine, unconsciously counting each vertebra, until her finger was misguided from its path by an indented detour on the prince’s skin. The scar, a jarred and discolored line, ran across his back from one shoulder to the opposite rib, parallel to many others similar ones. She silently gasped, recognizing the source of the wound: a lash. _“A Sayan wears his battle scars with pride”_ , he had said to her that same day, but what about those cruel marks left by the vicious lashing of a master? 

Other little scars and healed welts covered the wide expanse of his back like a faint web. It was like he wore all the sufferings of his people on his shoulder, a map of sorrow; and maybe his tattoos weren’t only the reminder of a prophecy, but a story of hope written over the signs of the past. She followed another long line of ruined skin that led to the rounded remains of a dagger wound, fingering the seams of a deep gash running along his side. Goosebumps suddenly dotted his skin, and she looked up to find Vegeta’s serious gaze fixed on her from behind his shoulder. 

Caught red-handed, she cleared her voice and went back to work, letting her palm slide one last time along his back in a soothing caress. She could feel his eyes still on her, as well as the redness spreading on her face, but when she dared cross his gaze again there were no trace of rage in them. Only the faintest swirl of confusion furrowed his brows.

*

Vegeta didn’t know how he managed to suppress a groan when her fingers started to wander on his back, following the well-known scars left by his ruthless youth. The prince has anticipated her prying curiosity, but he wasn’t prepared to face the sensations elicited by her tender touches, as she explored his scarred skin. Her delicate fingers caressed every mark, each welt and wound so gently and with such care, he found himself stifling a groan more than once during her exploration. 

He couldn’t remember the last time he had experienced such gestures of endearment, the simple and soothing touch of skin without the intention to hurt or deceive. 

His whole body felt warm and his back, wherever she touched, was tingling deliciously, nerves alive and flooding his foggy brain with sparks of electricity and pleasure.

He turned slowly to watch her face, finding Bulma totally absorbed in her tantalizing exploration. When his skin gave up and flourished with goosebumps, her eyes met his own, and she stopped her illicit ministrations, startled. But one last caress - her palm warm and a little sweaty on his back - forced his eyes to flutter close. Vegeta swallowed, trying to regain some control over his senses and his body, glancing from time to time at the woman from over his shoulder. She continued to read his tattoos and writing her notes as if nothing had happened, but he could see the spreading redness on her neck and cheeks. What were they doing? No, what was  _ he _ doing, baring himself so much - metaphorically and figuratively - in front of this woman, this  _ stranger _ ? He waited, poised between confusion and pleasure, until her finger grazed the last symbol imprinted at the edge of his spine. He shuddered despite himself. 

“Dinner’s ready!” 

They both jumped at the sound of Goku’s voice, his grinning face peeking from behind the palm tree. 

“Oh, sorry to interrupt… If you wanted some privacy, you should have said so.”

Vegeta  felt his face go aflame , in both embarrassment and rage at the same time. 

“Kakarott, one more word and I’ll behead you…” he muttered, while putting on his tunic in haste. Then Bulma’s hand patted once again his lower back, and his mouth shut with a click.

“Let’s leave the beheading for later, I’m starving,” she giggled, joining Raditz at the bonfire and leaving a baffled prince behind. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, I finally did it! =____=   
> This chapter has been a real pain in the ass to finish, and I don't even know why! I know it's been a long waiting, and I thank you all for your patience. I already have the next chapter outlined clearly in my mind, and hopefully my updates will be a bit more regular from now on. Thanks again for your comments and support!


	8. In the eye of the storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unruly winds blow, thunders resonate in the distance. But the storm is in their hearts. 
> 
> Soundtrack: “Sarsariya”, by A.R. Rahman, from the movie Mohenjo Daro; “Albela Sajan”, by Sanjay Leela Bhansali from the movie “Bajirao Mastani”; “Evanescent”, by Axiom of Choice

 

 

 _“_ _This unruly wind blows in all directions, so fast_

_And my heart is flying with it, so fast_

_I can only dance and follow its lead_

_[...] When I look at you my heart starts pacing,_

_It flutters in sweet confusion”_

 

 _(Sarsariya, by_ _A.R. Rahman)_

 

 

Bulma sat in front of the fire, content for the first time in the last 2 days. As the light of the day surrendered to the darkness, a blanket of stars already dotted the cerulean hue of the sky, while the dunes sparkled with various shades of pink and purple. With her belly full of roasted meat and her sore limbs rested at last, she could finally rearrange her notes and work on the translation of the Sayan prophecy in peace. It was easier said than done: she read the same phrase three times, before becoming aware of her lost battle with a certain distraction. Her gaze strayed more than once toward the prince, currently busy in a sparring session with Goku, beside the campsite. She tried not to ogle too much, but it was indeed difficult not to be distracted by his state of undress or the enticing ripple of his muscles every time he struck and wielded his blade.

Like so many days ago at the Sayan main camp, Vegeta was naked from the waist up, his muscular figure moving with violence and grace at the same time. Bulma found herself mesmerized by his fluid movements and the uptempo rhythm of his blow, resulting in a lethal but beautiful dance.

A sudden cough startled her. Beside her, Raditz cleared his voice, watching her with a knowing smirk and licking his lips in an almost indecent way. _Oh fuck_ , she had been caught.  

“What?” she retorted, trying not to confirm his suspicions by blushing like a teenager.

“I haven’t said a word,” he replied with false innocence, but that obnoxious smirk didn’t leave his face. How much she wanted to wipe it away with a punch.

“I’m just trying to learn some move to defend myself…” Bulma mumbled. Why she felt the need to justify herself was beyond her. The Sayan’s roaring laughter enraged her even more.

“Yeah, sure… Let me see what you’ve learned then,” he added, suddenly towering over her, menacing and larger than life.

Bulma set her notes aside and rose to her feet, blood boiling. He asked for it, after all.

She lounched, hands balled into fists, and threw a jab at him. Raditz deflected it with no effort, but at her second try he stopped her punch and spun her around, bending her arm behind her back.

Bulma cried out, more in surprise than pain, but when the Sayan laughed again, another kind of rage surged up from her insides. I resembled painfully the disappointment she faced every time the sages of the Council and the scientist of her court mocked her researches and discoveries: what could a puny and naive princess know of the world, after all? Bulma stomped on Raditz’s foot with all her force, making him yelp and freeing her arm.

“Ha! That will teach you not to laugh at the princess of Capsalis!” she crowed while the Sayan limped towards his mat, muttering obscenities.

“That was hardly a victory to be proud of, _princess_ ,” a deep voice said behind her.

Suddenly an arm wound itself around her neck and shoulder, while another hand grabbed her wrist. As Bulma collided on Vegeta’s firm and unforgiving body, she suppressed a shiver. The prince must have finished his training without her noticing, sneaking up on her.

She could feel his warm breath bounce on her skin while his lips curved in a tantalizing smirk just behind her ear.

“You want to learn to defend yourself? Fine,” he chuckled. “Now, try to get free.”

Bulma swallowed. Having him so near was imposing and arousing at the same time, his body warm and solid behind her. She wanted to lean on it, not to get away. She wriggled tentatively, but her weak struggles only served to make the prince losing his patience.

“Ridiculous. Is this all you’ve got?” he scoffed, tightening his grip on her even more.

Bulma elbowed him in the rib with all her force, but Vegeta only growled.

“Don’t hesitate!”

“I’m trying, ok?” she screamed back, stepping on his toe with rage and trying to bite his forearm, still clamped around her neck. This time she got at least a reaction, and the prince’s hold loosened just a little. She didn’t have the time to gloat, because Vegeta spun her around, making her fall to the ground. His weight was suddenly on her, his hand once again around her throat and the other one blocking her wrist over her head. She was trapped, but what was really pinning her on the ground was his gaze, fixed and cold like a predator’s. This time, even with the prince’s body so near and straddling her own, she felt helpless, lost. A frightened and cornered prey, waiting to be eaten whole. Vegeta’s face was suddenly a mere breath from hers, and Bulma couldn’t help but tremble.

“You’re not trying enough. You’re fighting for your life, don’t ever forget that,” he whispered, his voice cold and empty. At that moment Bulma realized the prince wasn’t there with her anymore: he was so near but so far at the same time, lost in some gruesome memory of his past, eyes slightly unfocused and distant. She raised her free hand toward his own, still cramped on her neck, fingers grazing his knuckles in a soothing caress.

“Vegeta…” she rasped, licking her dry lips.

His eyes slowly focused again on her and after a moment the grip on her neck loosened.

He rose with a swift move, pulling her up with him. Bulma staggered, feeling dizzy and confused, while so many emotions swam freely in her head. When she dared to cross his gaze, she found the prince studying her, deep in thought.

“You’re the weakest person I’ve ever met,” he sighed, shaking his head, his voice and eyes once again warm and alive. Bulma let out a relieved laugh, ignoring his mocking tone.

“Well I’m not a brute like you, if that’s what you’re implying…”

While she was shaking off the sand from her dress, the prince took a heavily decorated dagger from his belt and unsheathed it, taking her hand and wrapping her fingers on the hilt.

“At least you should learn to wield a weapon. Pay attention,” he scolded her, guiding her armed hand toward his body.

He angled the blade towards the side of his torso, the tip grazing his rib.

“Always aim for vital points, lungs or liver. The heart is too difficult, the sternum could deflect the blow. Watch out for the ribs too,” he explained. Bulma observed the dagger dance along his body, deadly and beautiful as its master.

Suddenly the prince spun her around, resuming their previous position with his arm around her neck from behind.

“If someone grabs you from behind, you can aim for the thigh. If you get the right spot…”

“The femoral artery, I know. The attacker will bleed to death,” she continued, her medicine studies finally emerging from her foggy brain. Vegeta snorted.

“At least some of your rubbish is useful…”

It was amazing how the Prince of all pricks was able to make her jump from arousal to fear, and then back to the deepest pit of rage. Bulma gritted her teeth, turning in his arms, and pointed the dagger at Vegeta’s throat.

“I am _always_ useful. And you should learn to not underestimate me,” she whispered.

The prince didn’t even flinch, his face hard as a stone. He tilted his head, pressing the blade to his skin until it broke and a drop of blood rolled down his jugular.

Bulma gasped, hastily retrieving the blade and pushing him away in horror.

“Underestimate you? We are only playing, here,” he added, words dripping with poison. “Tell me, _princess:_ have you ever killed a man?”

She watched him wipe away the blood on his throat with nonchalance, licking it from his fingers like a wild lion. Sometimes she forgot she was in front of the former Djinn, a cruel assassin and war lord. Someone that had shed more blood than the amount actually flowing in his veins.

“I could never do that. I’m not like you,” she answered, equally venomous.

The prince’s eyes pierced her before she could finish the sentence: “No, you’re not.”

Bulma averted her gaze, knowing she had said too much. She waited for his rage and rightful outburst, but the prince remained silent and when his prying eyes found her own again, they were unusually soft.

“If there will be a time when you’ll have to chose between taking a life or sacrificing your own, remember who you are.”

As the prince closed the distance between them and grazed her still bruised cheek with his knuckles, Bulma held her breath.

“Remember what you’re fighting for, and do what you have to do to survive.”

Bulma shivered at the touch of his warm hand, the light of the rising moon swirling in his dark eyes. Once again her rage evaporated like water under the scorching sun of the desert, leaving her bare and vulnerable in front of this man. She nodded stiffly, and handed the dagger back to its owner. Vegeta shook his head.

“Keep it,” he said, tying the sheath at her waist. “But next time some street scum tries to kidnap you, you’ll be on your own. I’m done babysitting you.”

Bulma observed the finely carved blade, the thin golden thread that ran along the crimson sheath and the myriad of gems that decorated the hilt. It was a beautiful weapon, a gift worthy of royalty. She blushed, remembering what ChiChi had told her so long ago: Sayans used to propose to their lovers giving a dagger as a gift. She nearly let the weapon fall, the metal suddenly burning in her hands.

“Wait, I can’t… I mean, you need your weapon more than me!”

“I already have my sword, Ghalik,” Vegeta interrupted her, eyes dark but warm. “The dagger is not mine. It was my mother’s.”

She gasped, realizing the deeper meaning of the blade in her hands. It was more than a weapon, something totally different from a marriage gift. She couldn’t help but wonder if the dagger was a silent and tentative sign of trust. It was a question the prince would never answer, she knew that. But she could hope, at least.

“Thank you,” Bulma whispered, her voice thick with emotion, but the prince was already gone, heading to his mat for the night.

 

*

 

The silhouette of the Sayan main camp, standing out among the dunes, was a sight for sore eyes. Vegeta was glad to be back, especially after two days of an excruciatingly slow travel. A ride aggravated by the behavior of his cousins. It hadn’t escaped their eyes the fact that Bulma wore the dagger at her waist. His mother’s dagger. Raditz in particular hadn’t left him alone the whole trip with his malicious stares. Vegeta didn’t know himself what possessed him to give her the weapon. She needed something to defend herself with, that was the intention. But the moment her lithe fingers had closed on the hilt, his mind had been blown with images of queen Saba, her figure tall and regal, but affectionate and serene at the same time. Small memories, fragments of a life he didn’t remember anymore, but that somehow still clung to his very being like a protective cape. When she had handed him the dagger, he couldn’t bring himself to take it back. It felt... right in her hands.

He didn’t need it, after all, and even if their marriage was a farce, it was only natural for him to give her such a gift, sooner or later. Nothing more. It wasn’t a big deal, something to fuss over. Plus, she couldn’t possibly know a thing about Sayan customs… right?

Deep in thought, the prince nearly missed the joyful greetings of his people, at their arrival at the camp. Kakarott was already in the arms of his wife, while Bulma literally jumped down her dromedary, to help Raditz distribute their loot from the cave. Her smile was so bright it obscured the sun, while she sorted out each weapon or valuable item, to assign them at his army or at the trading groups ready to leave to restock their provisions.

He looked for one of his sentinels, glad the crowd was paying him no attention.

“Any message from the king, while we were away?”

“No, my Lord,” answered the man, bringing his fist to his chest in greeting.

“Inform me at once, if a messenger shows up,” he said, dismounting from his horse.

Vegeta threw one last glance to Bulma and the cheerful mob that surrounded her, and retired to his quarters.

 

*

 

Bulma was exhausted after the long voyage and the intense work that followed their arrive. All weapons had been distributed to the Sayan soldiers, while any valuable item was already gone with the trading parties that left once a week to bargain food, animals and supplies with other nomad tribes that passed nearby. After the feast for their arrival, the camp was starting to resume its usual rhythm, with the women busy preparing the evening meal.

In the chariot, now nearly empty, only the ancient Sayan armor and the ruined carpet remained hidden in the bottom.

When the mob dissolved, ChiChi finally reached her and hugged her like a sister; Bulma didn’t waste one second and whispered in her ear: “I need your help, Chi. Can you find the blacksmith for me?”

Her sister-in-law nodded, but was suddenly distracted by something hanging from her waist. In front of her widening eyes, Bulma blushed, trying to hide the dagger Vegeta gave her some days ago.

“Don’t you dare hiding it!” ChiChi whispered back. “Vegeta gave it to you, right? When? How? You have to tell me everything…”

Bulma tried to silence her, without much success.

“I will Chi, I swear. But I really need the blacksmith first.”

“Why do you need him?”

Bulma smiled, lifting the piece of cloth that covered the armor enough for her friend to see what was hidden underneath it.

ChiChi gasped, covering her mouth with both her hands.

“Where did you find it?” she asked, eyes already full of tears and emotions.

“In the cave where we found the sphere and all the weapons. It’s old and rusty, but I already have some ideas to modify it and make a better version,” she whispered, taking her friend’s hands in her own. “But I want it to be a surprise for Vegeta: can you help me?”

ChiChi only nodded, eyes still glued to the hidden armor. After the initial shock has passed, she scurried away to find the camp blacksmith, not before throwing a last glance at Bulma’s dagger, shining in the sun like the most precious jewel in the world.

 

*

 

The harsh light of the day was scorching on his shoulders as Vegeta walked through the tents. The tribe swarmed with life, and everyone was still busy arranging their precious cargo and the supplies bartered with it. Two more Water Trees stood out from the camp outline and for once the tribe wasn’t striving to survive. Things were going particularly fine, as well as his search for the sacred spheres: four of them were already in his hands, but the very person that could lead him to the fifth orb, was currently missing.

Vegeta hadn’t seen Bulma for days: every time he returned from his late training, she was already asleep but in the morning her self-made bed on the carpets of his tent was empty. She hadn’t asked him once to continue studying his tattoos, and that was very suspicious. After three days of this hide-and-seek, his patience was at its limit.

She had to find the new course, and fast. His father hadn’t sent any message, and the silence on his expedition was starting to unnerve the prince. They had to hurry up and find the spheres, so he could join the king, and finally declare war to the Emperor.  He was tired to hide with women and elders in the shadow, like a frightened child. His revenge was so near he could already feel its bitter-sweet taste on his tongue, but the moment of victory he craved since his return was still out of his reach.

Vegeta made another tour of the camp, searching for his fake spouse, but the damned woman was nowhere to be seen. After another hour of useless search, the prince bursted into Kakarott’s tent. ChiChi was grinding herbs and humming peacefully in one corner, not surprised at all by the prince’s entrance.

“Where’s the damn woman?” he asked without any greetings.

ChiChi shrugged, unimpressed, continuing her work.  “Why should I know? Isn’t she _your_ wife?”

Vegeta took a deep breath, trying not to explode. He felt a modicum amount of respect for Kakarott’s wife, if only for her ability to cope with his cousin’s idiocy, but sometimes she could be as annoying as her husband. He pinched the bridge of his nose in the effort to control himself.

“Stop playing with me ChiChi. Where is she? We have to leave soon, and she has work to do!”

“Maybe she’s had enough of you and your charming ways,” ChiChi seethed, putting aside her pestle. “She’s not your servant, _your majesty_. And I’m not her babysitter. Besides…”

The mischievous glint in her eyes told Vegeta that the conversation was not going to end well. For him, at least. ChiChi smiled at him, and he sensed something was up. He hoped she didn’t know about...

“Maybe she’s taking lessons from Khale on how to proper wield your _gift_ …”

Damn, she knew.

“I wonder if she knows the real meaning of that dagger. Someone should tell her... ” ChiChi reasoned, cleaning her nails from non-existing dirt, in fake disinterest.

Vegeta crossed his arms, hoping his discomfort was not so obvious.  

“It was nothing of the sort. She needed a weapon. End of the story.”

“How convenient… ”

Vegeta was about to burst - either from rage or embarrassment, he didn’t know exactly - when his cousin entered his tent, carrying two heavy sacks of rice and flour.

“Chi I have your… Oh, hey Vegeta. Were you waiting for me? Do you want to train again?”

“Not this time, Kakarott,” the prince answered, Bulma momentarily forgotten. He could at least solve one of his problems.

“Get ready to leave. I need you to find my father and report on his location.”

“And the spheres?”

“It’s not your concern anymore. Your speed is more useful than your pathetic brute force, right now.”

Goku’s smile faltered, his expression suddenly serious.

“Are you worried about our fathers?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffed. “I just need to know where they are, so I can join them faster, when the search for the spheres will be completed. Two armies don’t disappear like that. It’s more likely their courier was intercepted and eliminated”.

Vegeta’s hand unconsciously moved towards the hilt of his sword. No, he wasn’t worried. But this prolonged silence from his father and Nappa was unusual.

“We have to be fast. You leave immediately.”

ChiChi irritated voice stopped him while he was exiting the tent.

“Wait! You can’t make Goku leave now: Ghermez is in one week!”

Vegeta turned one last time at the entrance of the tent, his best vicious smirk already plastered on his face.

“How convenient…”

He dashed out, dodging at the last second a flying dipper thrown at his head.

 

*

 

Bulma was literally flying above the ground. After only three days of hard work, the first modified Sayan armor was shining between her hands. She had spent the whole return trip thinking on how to fuse the different kinds of metals and minerals at her disposal, and with some help her new creation was reality. She beamed at young Khabba, the son of the blacksmith, who was still polishing the helmet. His skills and open-minded attitude had been a great asset, and he had been eager to help her from the start, while his father hadn’t wanted anything to do with her project, afraid of the prince’s wrath. She smiled once more at her reflection on the metal.

“This is awesome, Khabba: great job! Your father should be proud of you,” she giggled, eyes glued to the shining armor. His boyish smile lit the entire tent.

“Thanks to you, my Lady! This new alloy is simply perfect, lighter but stronger. With all the metals you brought from that cave and our reserve, we should be able to produce a brand-new set of armor for our elite soldiers.”

Bulma’s hand grazed the golden Sayan insignia, carved on the chest-plate.

“The prince will not believe his eyes, what do you think?” she winked at the boy.

Khabba helped her wrap the chest-plate and the helmet in a piece of fabric, so she could bring the set to the prince’s tent without anyone noticing. Bulma left in a hurry, clutching the package to her chest in glee. She was eager to show her new creation to Vegeta, already savoring his bewilderment. The armor project had been a challenge for her intellect, but it meant much more for her Sayan prince. She still remembered how his eyes had filled with emotion at the sight of the ancient artifact. In that moment she knew that she would have built a hundred, a thousand armors just to see that spark again in his eyes.

On her trip back to the royal tent, she saw Goku mounting on his horse; ChiChi was beside him, bringing his hand to her lips in the strange gesture she had already witnessed some time ago. When Goku spurned his horse, leaving the Sayan camp, she stopped in her tracks, joining her sister-in-law at the border of the desert.

“Where is he going?” she asked, a hand on ChiChi shoulder.

The woman sighed, watching her husband disappear on the horizon.

“Vegeta sent him away to look for Bardock and the King. There hadn’t been any message from them in the last month, and that’s strange…”

Bulma hugged her friend’s shoulders, trying to cheer her up.

“He will be ok, I’m sure their messenger was delayed or something…”

ChiChi snorted: “I know, but I wish Vegeta had waited to send him away. Ghermez is next week, and it will not be the same without Goku…”

Bulma’s eyebrow furrowed in concentration, trying to decipher the foreign word.

“ _Ghermez_ …?”

“It’s the Love Festival! Sorry Bulma, I forgot to tell you,” ChiChi giggled, forgetting for a moment the departure of her husband. “It’s a Sayan celebration of the bonds between lovers and couples. The women dance the Ghoomar in circle wearing traditional garbs, and they invite their mates and paint each other faces and bodies. You should participate, as the prince’s wife.”

Bulma blushed, her recent dreams about the aforementioned prince suddenly vivid in her mind.

“I don’t know if it’s a good idea...  I don’t even have the required attire.”

ChiChi took her hand, determination lighting her eyes.

“Nonsense. I can lend you my dress: I won’t be dancing, given Goku would probably still be away. Besides…” ChiChi added, a mischievous smirk dancing on her lips, “Vegeta gave you his dagger: you are officially his mate now. And it’s only natural for his wife to dance for him on Ghermez. It could even bring you two closer...”

Bulma swallowed, nervously biting the inside of her cheek. ChiChi was right: she had to do what was expected of her, as the Prince’s bride. Plus, she reasoned while a different kind of tension settled in the pit of her stomach, she was already getting closer to her elusive prince, whether she wanted it or not. Every gesture, every gaze, every moment they shared, like an elusive wind was pushing and pulling them towards the same direction, the eye of the storm.

What would they find into dangerous waters?

Oblivious of Bulma’s inner turmoil, ChiChi suddenly gasped, eyeing the package the princess held in her arms.

“Ah, I nearly forgot: Vegeta was looking for you and was more insufferable than usual. But if this package is what I think it is, maybe you will be able to cheer him up…” she winked, pushing Bulma towards the royal tent.

The princess smiled and hurried up to her destination, her troubled thoughts scattering in the wind like wild birds. When she entered the tent she shared with the prince, she found him seated on his bed, clearly waiting for her, arms tightly crossed on his chest, while his expression was set and more than a bit annoyed. Nothing out of the ordinary.

“Where have you been?” he grumbled, eyeing suspiciously the package in her arms. “We need to leave soon to find the next sphere. Have the course ready at once, or else!”

Bulma ignored his irritation and smiled, eager to show him her little project.

“I’ve been busy. Don’t worry, I’ll be ready with the new course in no time. But first, I have something for you…”

She watched him get up and join her at the center of the tent, more wary than curious.

Her fingers itched to smooth out the deep lines between his eyebrows, always furrowed. She swiftly unwrapped her gift and handed it to him.

“It’s a new Sayan armor, made from a different alloy. It’s stronger but lighter, easier to produce, so we could replicate it for your men too. I kept the ancient design nearly unaltered, as you can see, and…”

She knew the tension coiled at the pit of her stomach was making her rambling, but she couldn’t contain her excitement. The prince remained silent, his eyes glued to the armor, and an unreadable expression on his face.

“Do you like it?” she asked, smiling even more to mask her uncertainty.

When she tried to get closer to him, his icy glare rose from the armor and pierced her heart.

 

*

 

Vegeta was speechless. It wasn’t an everyday occurrence, but apparently the woman was very good at subverting his expectation and taking him by surprise.

The armor in his hands was lighter, indeed, but he could sense the inner strength of the finely decorated metal. It was a beautiful gift, he recognized. One he didn’t deserve.

The thought unsettled him even more: what could she possibly want in return for such present? He stared at her, searching for her intentions in the stormy blue of her irises.

“What do you want?”

She took one step back, taken aback by his stare and harsh voice.

“What do you mean?”

Vegeta let the armor drop on the floor. Eliciting a gasp from the woman in front of him.

“You said it yourself, some time ago: everything comes with a price to pay. So I’ll ask you again: what do you want from me?” Vegeta snarled, mistrust tainting his voice with poison. When he closed the distance between them, she flinched.

“It’s just a gift!”

“Don’t play dumb! It’s not just the armor,” he interrupted, cornering her against a pillar of the tent. “You agreed to come with us in search of the spheres to save your people. But the water tree, the prophecy, and now this… it wasn’t in our deal, any of that. What do you want in return?”.

Under his hard gaze, he saw Bulma straightening her spine, visibly tense but stubbornly refusing to cower in front of him.

“Nothing. I want nothing from you.”

“Don’t lie to me!”, he roared, rage boiling in his veins. She surged up, trying to slap him, but before her hand could hit his face, Vegeta easily blocked her, grabbing her wrist.

“Careful, _princess_ …” he growled, putting in his voice all the venom he could muster. “You might lose your hand this time.”

He could feel her body trembling, not in fear but in rage. Her eyes were daggers, glistening with a veil of tears she refused to shed. When she spoke, her voice rumbled like the thunder of an approaching storm.

“You are so busy not trusting anyone, that you can’t recognize a gesture of kindness even when it’s under your nose!”

The prince unconsciously tightened his grip on her wrist, knowing it would leave a bruise. A roar bubbled in his throat, rage flashing behind his eyes.   

“That’s how I stayed alive!”

“No, that’s how you ended up alone!” she screamed back.

Her words hit him where her slap couldn’t, striking too close to the truth for his liking. He staggered back, letting go of her arm as if it burned. They stared at one another for a long time, Bulma rubbing her sore wrist while he tried to recompose himself.

For how much he tried, he couldn’t possibly understand that woman. It was like trying to grasp the unruly wind of the desert. Her real motivations remained hidden to him, and that bothered the prince. In his world, the one he grew up in, everything had a price: he just had to find out what hers was.

“Why are you doing all this? Why are you even here?” he asked again, pacing through his tent like a caged lion. “With your mind and the help of your people you could have built a weapon powerful enough to destroy Frieza and his army. Why this kidnapping masquerade? Don’t pretend you’re here only to protect your people because we both know that’s bullshit...”

Her voice rose, surpassing the echo of his rage: “Because I want my freedom!”

Teeth grinding, eyes ablaze, she sprang up, fisting the front of his tunic, once again impossibly near, impending like death itself.

“I’ve been underestimated all my life, dismissed as a scientist but feared as a woman for my intelligence. No one in the Council of Sages followed my lead against Frieza: why should they, when it was simpler to sell the princess to the enemy, bartering the survival of Capsalis with the falling of the rest of world?” she asked bitterly, her hands trembling in rage. “I’ve already been silenced, reduced to a pretty prize to conquer and then what? A mute and forgotten wife for the first king or emperor who asks me to surrender my life to him? I can’t accept that. I _won’t_ accept that. Be it Frieza or Yamcha or another brainless and ambitious prick striving to take the throne and exploit my researches. I won’t be the invisible woman behind the curtains of history. I am the smartest being in this part of the world, an alchemist, a scientist, a historian and an engineer. And once this quest of ours will be over, I’ll return home to be the _queen_ I deserve to be!”

Vegeta watched in awe the blue fire dancing in her eyes, her gritted teeth and white knuckles clamped on the front of his tunic. Rage suited her, and he couldn’t help to find her more beautiful than ever.

Bulma let go of his collar, exhaling a shaky breath.

“So yes, I’m doing this for my people... and for myself, too. And I’m helping you because, like it or not, we are in this mess _together_.”

The prince watched her fury bristle and dissolve, as she took the armor from the floor and laid it gently on his bed.

“We are similar, you and I,” she added, pensive, while her hand grazed the Sayan symbol engraved on the metal. “We have to struggle and fight tooth and nails to conquer what should have been already ours. Power, freedom, a place in history: it’s all the same.”

He remained silent, not knowing how to respond at her confession, as she turned one last time and left.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I made it again: here’s another cultural mix I have to explain. The Love Festival was inspired by the Indian Holi, a celebration where people paint each other with colored pigments. The word Ghermez means Red in Persian and the Ghoomar is a Rajasthani folk dance usually performed by the women of the gypsy tribes on special occasions and festivals. It’s really beautiful, full of spins and arms movements, with ample skirts that swirl and enhance the dancers’ movements. If you’re interested, on YouTube there are some beautiful videos by Colleena Shakti, an American-Indian dancer that specialized on Kalbelia folk music and dance. She also made a documentary about it. 
> 
> As for Bulma and Vegeta… I know, their journey towards each other is taking a while, but every time they get closer I feel the need to further elaborate certain concepts and situations, as Vegeta’s trust issues or Bulma’s motivations behind the armor-enhancement.  
> But we’re almost there, I swear! xD 
> 
> Speaking of Bulma: here we got to see a little insight in her life and role in Capsalis, something more coherent to the historical setting I used as reference. I pictured Capsalis as a society similar to the ancient Athens or Sparta, or a mix of the two: there was a king, obviously, but it was the Council of Sages that held the reins of every executive decision. It’s easy to imagine how little a woman counted in that setting, despite how modern the concept of government looked.  
> Smart women were always feared and often put down though history. But there were (and still are) women like Bulma, in every era, who fought for their right to exist and matter. With her character I wanted to pay tribute to them: the invisible ones, the fierce girls, the rebels. 
> 
> If Dragonball taught me (us?) something, aside from epic fights and such, is that a single woman can do great things and even make the difference (no dragon balls without the Dragon radar, no Namek without the spaceship, no survival without the time-travel machine… I could go on and on), even if she’s just a tiny human being among gods, aliens and evil Emperors of the Universe.
> 
> Thank you again for your comments, see you at the next chapter!


	9. Ishq hua (My weakness)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He has a new armor, but her lips can melt even the strongest metal...
> 
> Soundtrack - “Ishq hua” and “Is pal main hoon”, by Sonu Nigam and Shreya Ghoshal from the movie “Aaja Nachle”

 

 

_ “Am I alone in this moment, or are you here with me? _

_ You remember me the story of that lovers... _

_ Should I bring back that memory, should I let go? _

_ Or should I let my heart be free, and let it wander wherever it wants?” _

 

_ (Is pal main hoon, by Sonu Nigam and Shreya Ghoshal) _

 

 

Vegeta observed the Sayan armor for a long time. Sitting on his bed, he touched with reverent fingers every crevice and decoration, following with his open palms the curve of the bust, and the prominent ridges of the shoulder straps. The royal crest, carved elegantly on the breastplate, burned under his fingers, along with his remorse. The nagging feeling stinging his insides was new to him: it left him restless and irritated, but he had just sent away his only sparring partner, so letting out some steam with violence wasn’t an option. 

He stared down at the lifeless piece of metal that has caused that whole mess, as if it could bend in shame under his gaze. But the armor only reflected his scowl, aggravating his mood even more. It was a beautiful gift, unexpected and confusing at the same time, like the woman who had delivered it. She knew how much that armor meant to him and his people: how could she possibly want nothing in return? Was she really so incredibly naive and kind? Or did she have some ulterior motives, he still couldn’t see?

_ We are in this together. _

No, he worked better alone: he always had. But this forced collaboration was doing something to him: it was showing him what his life could have been, if his imprisonment had never happened. A life with a wife, maybe a family, a life where he was someone and not the shadow of a monster. A life where he wasn’t alone. 

As the metal warmed between his hands, the day started to fade, accompanied by the chatter of his people gathered around the bonfire. The red light filtering through the tent morphed in a purple hue, while darkness blackened his reflection on the shining armor. Like a broken mirror, it held no answers for him.

When Bulma came back, much later, he remained still, following her shadow move on the metal he still held between his hands. She hesitated for a moment, then straightened her spine - a habit he started to find strangely alluring - and marched to her self-made bed without glancing at him. 

Vegeta didn’t move, listening to the small sounds of her evening routine, the rustling of clothes while she undressed behind a canopy and the gentle drip of the oil she usually smeared on her skin. The sweet fragrance tickled his nostrils, and he took a deep breath, savoring her unique feminine scent. Her previous words resonated in his mind: how could they be similar? Her, a pampered creature, still untouched by the wicked hand of life; and him, a broken and forgotten demon. But they  _ were _ similar, indeed. They equally strove to be more than that, to be the best, to surpass expectations. To be who they were supposed to be. And he needed her in order to reach his goal, in the same way she needed him to conquer her rightful place at home. So he got up and made the first step, for once. He owed this much to her, if only for the armor that his hands refused to let go.

 

*

 

Bulma was already wrapped in her covers when she heard the prince moving.

She was beginning to believe he was truly made of stone, inside and out. She snuggled deeper in her covers, hoping tiredness would conquer her soon, to escape the cold indifference that seemed to surround her in that blasted tent. 

His gruff but softer voice nearly made her jump. 

“Woman.”

She refused to answer, still angry. How dared he bothering her again, after all the harsh words she had to endure? But the prick didn’t give up and called her again.

“I have a name, you know?” she blurted out, without even turning.

She heard him sigh, then his voice was suddenly near.

“Bulma.”

She sat up, only to find the prince crouched beside her nest of covers. She huffed and acted haughty, at the same time tormenting the fringed edge of the sheet with her nails, slightly unnerved by his sudden closeness.

“What is it? I told you the new course will be ready soon.”

“It’s not that.”

She squinted in the darkness, trying to intercept his gaze, but the prince’s eyes were strangely glued on the patch of carpet between them. 

“What do you want, Vegeta?” she asked, quoting his earlier question, but her voice came out softer than intended. She was tired, tired of be left out of his walls, slamming over and over again against his closed door. She was tired to be alone. The prince sighed again, as if he was struggling to find the words. Then, he blurted out: “The tattoos. You can continue to read them. Tonight, I mean. If you want.”

Bulma blinked once, then her sleep deprived brain finally connected the dots, and she had to struggle not to laugh in disbelief in front of the prince. It couldn’t be: was that unusual offer a garbled attempt to apologize? She searched his unreadable eyes for answers, but the prince kept his gaze averted from her. Even if he didn’t want to admit it, the truth was there, in his quiet discomfort: he was apologizing. After knowing him for a little more than a month, it was clear as the light of the day he hadn’t uttered those words very often.  _ Never _ was probably a better approximation. 

Bulma bit her tongue and tried to hide her bewilderment, already knowing this special moment could be gone in a whim if she wasn’t careful.

“I want to, thank you,” she said after a while. “I already finished transcribing the tattoos on your back, so the only ones left are the symbols on your legs…”

The sentence died on her tongue, as he got up without a word, turning away from her and starting to undress diligently. Still seated on the carpets, Bulma embraced her knees, secretly cherishing the intimate view of the man in front of her, baring himself with care and a bit of uncertainty. The scarred back she began to know so well bent and flexed under her mesmerized eyes, as the prince removed his tunic. When he was about to take off his pants, Vegeta paused, rising one eyebrow at her from behind his shoulder.

“Would you mind?”

Bulma blushed and turned, but the mirror positioned at the opposite side of the tent offered her the clandestine reflection of the royal butt in all its glory, making her smirk. _Oh,_ _I don’t mind at all…_

She averted her eyes, suddenly ashamed of the lewd path her mind was taking without her permission. The prince’s voice woke her up from her inappropriate reverie.

“I’m ready.”

When Bulma got up and turned, she felt her jaw drop on the floor along with what was left of her dignity . Vegeta was reclined on his bed, naked except for a flimsy strip of cover draped on his most private regions. Speaking of lewd paths… Two lines of tattoos followed the outside of his thighs, starting from the dangerous V of his lower abdomen, while a narrower strip of symbols connected his navel to the sinful destination hidden under the sheet.

Bulma swallowed and tried to occupy her insubordinate mind with the hard task of finding her notes, along with a new set of nib and ink. Then she sat on the prince’s bed, beside his knee, her mouth suddenly dry. She couldn’t bring herself to watch him in the eyes, sure to find his mocking smirk already plastered on his face.

She dipped the nib into the ink bottle, her fingers unsteady but already reaching for his skin, ready to follow the new and delicious trail on the southern region of his body. She started from the tattooed pattern that ran below his navel: when her index grazed his abdomen, she felt his muscles ripple, tendons flexing and tightening, while his big hand closed once again on her wrist. His grip this time was gentler, almost tender.

“This is not… That’s only for decoration…”, he stuttered.

As she finally looked up, Bulma’s eyes widened: Vegeta, the prince of all Sayans and the most infamous assassin of the desert, was _ blushing. _ The crimson hue coloring his dark skin spread from his cheeks to the tip of his ears and Bulma couldn’t help but find the sight deeply intriguing. 

“O-ok…”

She retrieved her hand and proceeded transcribing the symbols imprinted on his left leg, smiling to herself as the flame of the oil lamp danced hypnotically on his bronzed skin. What did she get herself into?

 

*

 

What in the world did he get himself into?

Vegeta was fighting a battle with his own body, rebelling in a new and mischievous way to his iron willpower. Every fiber of his being sang at her touch, his skin flushing and warming every time her fingers grazed his leg. He felt dizzy, intoxicated and deeply embarrassed without reason, except for the fact he was nearly naked in front of a woman. Well, not just any woman… This kind of situation hadn’t bothered him once in his past life: why was it different with her?

Her nimble fingers continued their journey on his skin, her thumb briefly massaging his knee, and he felt his muscles twitch in response. He tried to concentrate on anything else except her touches, but his body seemed to have a mind of its own, suddenly sensitive to the faintest feather-like movement. He needed a distraction, and he needed it soon, before she could sense his discomfort or his body would betray him with a more embarrassing reaction. 

“Have you already translated the first part of the prophecy?” he blurted out, preferring mundane conversations to the slow torture he was enduring.  

“As a matter of fact, yes,” she answered, pausing momentarily her ministration - thanks to the Gods - to retrieve her notes from her bag. “I wanted to discuss it with you because… well, it’s strange.” She cleared her voice and got herself comfortable on the bed, leaning slightly to his leg. 

“Listen, it says: 

_ This separation has caused me immense sorrow _

_ Destiny has me chained to this state _

_ Release me from these chains _

_ for I am bound by the dust in this estranged land _

_ What is it you seek from me _

_ that you cast your chains upon a free man? _

_ Till when can my patience withstand this separation? _

_ Till when can I forbear this separation? _

_ If I were to reunite with you just one more time _

_ I would reveal to you all about the anguish of my exile.” _

Vegeta listened to the verses with eyes closed, while his frown deepened. The poem was familiar and mysterious at the same time, reaching for something hidden deep in his memory.

“It’s really strange…”, whispered Bulma, startling him.

“What it’s strange?”

“The prophecy. It seems more a prayer to me, almost…”

Vegeta watched her chewing on her lower lip, deep in thought. 

“... a love poem.”

He snorted, shaking his head. What was he expecting from a woman?

“Nonsense. The great power of Ozaru has nothing to do with love.”

Bulma huffed, resuming her transcription.

“You know, you’re probably right. You Sayans have a very strange concept of love, after all…” she muttered, rolling her eyes. Vegeta felt his eye twitch in irritation, raising to her bait.

“And what exactly do  _ you _ know about love?”

“More than you, that’s for sure,” she chuckled, winking. “Tell me, my  _ Saiyyan, _ have you ever been in love?”

Vegeta crossed his arms, already regretting the whole conversation and his next words. 

“No. Love is a weakness.”

She couldn’t mask so well the faint disappointment that swam in her eyes. 

“It’s sad you think this way, but in a way I was expecting something like that from you…” she said, her smile more bitter than mocking. 

Vegeta snorted. “It’s a liability, a weak point unnecessarily exposed to the enemy. Only a fool would put himself in that compromised position.”

He had once, and the lesson was learned the hard way, his mother’s last breath still hunting his dreams from time to times. Bulma remained silent, as if she knew what was in his mind.

Then the light in her eyes changed. 

“Then I’m curious…” The smirk suddenly gracing her lips was as dangerous as alluring: “Have you ever been with a woman at all?”

Vegeta stuttered, both in embarrassment and outrage, while the damned harpy in front of him burst out laughing.

“Of course I have!” he roared, but her giggling didn’t relent one bit. He wanted to get up and leave her there, but a pale hand on his chest stopped him. It bothered him, the power her mere touch had over him. 

“No, don’t go, please,” she said, still chuckling and push him back down. “I’m sorry, I really am! It’s just… your face was priceless,” she added, still giggling uncontrollably. “I’m almost done, I promise.” 

Vegeta snorted and rested his back on the cushions once again, turning his head away in outrage from the still laughing princess.

“Vulgar woman,” he grumbled, trying to recompose himself while she wiped away a stray tear from the corner of her eye.

“Hey, it was a legitimate question, though: who knew that between battles and slaughtering you had the time to…”

Vegeta interrupted her before she could worsen the situation with her vulgar mind.  

“It’s none of your business!”

“Well, we  _ are _ married, so it is my business, my dear  _ Saiyyan _ …” she grinned, resuming her work and transcribing the tattoos on his right leg. Again with that strange word... 

Vegeta scowled, ignoring the woman hovering on his body. He didn’t want to remember his short-lived and rare encounters with Frieza’s whores. They had been only an outlet for his teenage hormones, one-night stands in a world where any bond or affection could be used against him. Not pleasurable memories, by the way. Especially nothing comparable to the storm of sensations and confusion awaken by the giggling woman in front of him. 

When Bulma’s hand patted his thigh, the prince sucked in a breath.

“Come on, don’t be like that,” she cooed. “I just wanted to tease you a bit… You’re cute when you’re embarrassed.” 

Oh, she enjoyed watching him squirm? How about some turnabout?

“And what about you?” he seethed, narrowing his eyes at her.

Bulma only smiled maliciously, quirking one eyebrow at him and deflecting the question, that was thrown back at his face.

“What do you want to know?” 

Vegeta opened his mouth, but was suddenly at loss of words. Gods, she was good. 

“Were you… I mean… your virtue…”

She let him boil in his own discomfort for a whole minute, before giggling once again.

“Oh. My _ virtue, _ as you call it, is long gone. If you recall, I was promised to another, before this whole mess. Him and I, we were childhood friends so, you know… things happens, especially if you love someone and you are sure to marry him in the near future. But it didn’t stop Frieza to ask… no,  _ claim _ my hand, even if it was a hand without  _ virtue _ .” 

She paused and lowered her eyes, eyelids fluttering like the wings of a frightened bird: a movement so subtle he nearly missed it. 

“And it didn’t stop my fiancée to flee in the arms of another and less sought-after princess, when dangerous times came.”

In that exact moment, Vegeta wished to know the face of her previous lover. If only to smash it with his bare hands.

“Tch. A poor choice of husband, if you ask me. You could have better,” he grumbled without thinking, making her chuckle bitterly. 

“Like what? An evil Emperor? Or a fake marriage with the heir of a persecuted tribe?” she added, quirking one eyebrow at him. In the meantime her fingers continued wandering on his skin, kneading his taut muscles here and there. Vegeta stifled a groan, feeling his body melt again under her enthralled touch. He cleared his voice, hoping to clear his foggy mind as well.

“You’re better off alone.”

“Well, thank you for the encouragement…” she muttered, retrieving her hands from his skin, while Vegeta felt his face going aflame for the tenth time that evening.

“Gods, don’t twist my words, woman!” he growled, already missing her devious touch. “You need no one at your side to be who you are. To be a good queen.” 

He regretted the words the exact moment they left his mouth, as a shit-eating grin bloomed on his fake wife’s face. A vicious headache pounded at his temples, mingling with his increasing embarrassment and irritation. He couldn’t win this kind of battle, not with an opponent like her.

Vegeta sighed, defeat stinging his pride in front of her stare: “What?”

Bulma giggled, her eyes shining in the darkness of the tent. “Oh, nothing. It’s just really funny to see you struggle to make one tiny compliment…” 

As the prince huffed in outrage, she closed the distance to touch his red cheek with her lips. The connections send a spark of electricity straight to his brain and some other southern regions he was finding more and more difficult to control. 

“I was joking. You know, it means a lot coming from you. Thank you,” she whispered, her warm breath bouncing on his inflamed skin.

When she withdrew, Vegeta touched his cheek, confused. 

“What the hell was that?” 

 

*

 

Bulma blinked, staring silently at the prince for a whole minute. She must have heard wrong.

“You mean… the kiss?”

Vegeta stared back at her, then at his hand, mumbling: “ _ Kiss _ …” 

As the prince rolled the clearly foreign word on his tongue, Bulma realized her suspicion was right: he didn’t know what a kiss was. After a minute of stunned silence, she let go a nervous giggle. 

“What’s so funny?” he asked, irritation tainting once again his voice.

“I can’t believe it: you really have no idea of what a kiss is!?”

He resumed his defensive position, arms crossed and eyes averted from her. 

_ Great job, Bulma... _

“Why should I? I don’t see the point of this vulgar…  _ thin _ g.”

“Vulgar?” she asked in disbelief, “Wait, how do you Sayans express love and affection? By stabbing each other?”

Vegeta only snorted at her crude suggestion, muttering after a while: “ _ Omr-an… _ ”

“What? If you just insulted me, I’ll-”

His exasperated groan interrupted her rambling.

“It’s the expression of a bond between Sayans: you touch your mate’s wrist with your lips or forehead and put his or her hand over your heart. It’s called  _ Omr-an. _ ..”

Bulma smiled, in sudden realization.

“I think I saw ChiChi and Goku doing it the other day… you mean, like this?” 

When she tried to grab his hand, Vegeta jerked it away, shocked.

“What the hell are you doing?! It’s a very intimate and sacred gesture, a pledge! You don’t do it with just anyone: it means you are exchanging your life force with your mate.”

“Sorry…”

Bulma observed him for a long time, then smiled. So the Sayans were a bit romantic, after all...

She finished transcribing the tattoos on his leg, reasoning after a while: “In a way, a kiss has the same meaning, but it’s not so sacred. For some cultures, though, touching each other lips has something to do with giving the breath of life.”

She watched the prince frown, as his hand darted once again to his cheek. 

“The one on the cheek is a different kind of kiss,” she explained, sensing his confusion and faint curiosity. “It’s more innocent, and we give it to children, relatives or good friends. When you’re with a lover, you usually kiss his or her lips and mouth…”

Bulma didn’t miss the subtle movements on Vegeta’s features, his gaze dropping from her face to her mouth, while the prince wetted his own lips unconsciously.

Excitement fluttered in her stomach, the prophecy and the spheres long forgotten as her mind anticipated the feel of his mouth over hers. She remembered how soft his lips had felt under her fingers, when she had tended to his cuts, one of her first days at the camp. The tiny scar was still visible, cutting through the corner of his mouth. She wanted to trace it with the tip of her tongue, while diving in the alluring darkness of his eyes. That thought set her blood on fire, her eager heart rattling the cage of her ribs. 

She smiled, playful and determined, ready to experiment a different kind of chemistry and brand-new laws of attractions.

“I can show you, if you want…”

 

*

 

Vegeta swallowed, watching the woman wait patiently for his answer.

He could say no and be free of this spell, once and for all. But the crimson curve of her mouth called to him, from the mischievous curl of her Cupid’s bow to the plump outline of her lower lip. It awoke a foreign part of him, warm and wild, that strove to bite her skin and mark her with its teeth. He nodded, watching her lips hatch like a flower in a new and mysterious smile, while she bent over him, slow but sure. 

She was so near he could feel the beating of her heart. Or maybe it was his own, so loud it echoed in his mind and reverberated through his whole body.

“Close your eyes,” she whispered, and the feeling of her warm breath bouncing on his lips made his lids flutter close. The tip of her nose skimmed his cheek, tracing foreign paths on his skin. When their lips touched, stars exploded in his stomach, sparks cracking along his spine and setting something in his lungs on fire. The air was suddenly hotter, heavier as the gravity itself had increased tenfold. 

Blue flames smoldered and curled within him, as she angled her face and slid her lips on his own in a sensuous dance that took his breath away. When her tongue darted out, wet velvet smoothing over his lower lip, he opened his mouth to gulp the scorching air between them, letting her breach in and taste him, the sweetest of surrender. It was intoxicating and strange, a sinful dance that made his head spin deliciously. Every little movement, every caress of her mysterious mouth caused a reaction, his body answering at each sweet assault. She sighed in their kiss and a shudder shook his entire body; she nipped his lower lip, and he swallowed a moan. When she leaned on his chest, her lithe hand over his heart, he gripped the sheets with trembling fingers, trying with all his willpower to endure her tender torture, too much and not enough at the same time.

It felt so good, it should have been wrong.

_ What if they use her against us? _

_ Then don’t grow fond of her…  _

Vegeta froze, eyes wide open as his father's words echoed like an omen in his head. It was wrong, all of it. What were they doing?

As if sensing his subtle change of heart, Bulma pulled away, breaking the connection. As they stared to one another, trying to calm their ragged breaths, Vegeta saw in her blue eyes the same fear that gripped his insides. Her throat bobbed up and down, while she averted her gaze from him, arranging her notes and bottles of ink.

“I… I need to work on the coordinates of the next sphere, so…”

The prince nodded mechanically, turning to the opposite side to put his pants back on. His body felt disjointed and numb, unnaturally cold. He laid down once again on his bed, turning one last time to watch Bulma scribble numbers and coordinates on a piece of parchment, seated on the carpet. When he closed his eyes, praying for some peace for his troubled senses, at last, he could still feel her presence, so close and warm. The ghost of her kiss was still on his lips, when the prince finally fell asleep.

 

*

 

The flame of the lamp trembled in the night breeze that filtered through the tent, Bulma tightened the covers around her body to fight the sudden chill as she checked for the tenth time her calculations. The storm that had wrecked her senses was starting to subside, but she still struggled to concentrate on her project. The kiss with the prince replayed once again in her mind, making her blush and stifle a groan. What was she thinking, pulling a stunt like that with Vegeta, of all peoples? As if things between them weren’t enough complicated, already… She tried to calm herself, tormenting her swollen lips and rubbing them with her fingers, as if she could erase the kiss and the tingle that still lingered on her mouth, her skin, everywhere. When was the last time she had kissed someone like that? She couldn’t remember: maybe it was in her teens, when her marriage with Yamcha was still a mirage that didn’t stop them from fumbling around in every dark corner, excitement bubbling in their stomach with every messy and sloppy kiss. Vegeta’s kiss, on the other hand… 

He had followed her lead, letting her lose herself in her own contentment for a moment, but at the same time she had felt his struggles to restrain himself. A stray thought had hit her, then: restraining from what? What were they going with this? She had panicked, pulling away abruptly before… Before they would make a mistake. A beautiful, crazy mistake that could put their whole plan at stake. Bulma rubbed her face once more, trying so hard to concentrate on the compass before her. Numbers and formulas didn’t make sense anymore. She started over from the beginning, noting a new set of coordinates. She revised her calculations, over and over again, but just when she was beginning to think she was going crazy over a stupid kiss, it hit her. 

Her calculations weren’t wrong: the sphere was moving.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, something is finally happening! xD   
> I'm sorry it took me so long to update… but I wrote and re-wrote this scene so many times my head hurts. 
> 
> The text of the prophecy is an actual Persian song by Niyaz: it’s called “Feraghi - Song of exile” and ultimately it’s where this whole fic started from. Aside from the wonderful and poignant lyrics, it’s a beautiful song, that I recommend with all my heart. Music has been and still is fundamental for this fic, because I use it a lot to visualize the story and different scenes. That’s why you can find my favorite soundtrack in every chapter summary. :) 
> 
> The idea of the tattoo under his navel came from RutBisbe’s marvelous fanart (please go visit her on Tumblr!). I hadn’t thought about that particular tattoo when the story was born, but when I saw that devious line of tattoos on her fanart, the scene of this chapter just appeared in my mind and I couldn’t resist. *evil laughter*
> 
> Now the question is: will Ghermez arrive soon or will I have to torture them a little bit more? 
> 
> Just so you know, I’m torturing myself too here, but for how much I want to jump to the juicy part, there’s a story to tell and I can’t lose even one piece or my house of cards will crumble down in no time. I only hope the crucial scene will live to the expectations, after the long wait... >.<”


	10. I've tasted blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silent journeys to think about mistakes. A lullaby to fight nightmares and desire. A battle lost and a battle won. 
> 
> Soundtrack: “Mor Bani Thangat Kare” a Gujrati traditional song from the movie “Goliyon ki Raasleela Ram-Leela”; “Nami Nami” by Vas; “Deewani Mastani" by Shreya Ghoshal and Ganesh Chandanshive, from the movie “Bajirao Mastani”

 

  
_“As such it's just a game,_  
_this sharing between you and me._  
_But my heart is a kite,_  
_and your sight is a string”_

(“Udi Udi Jaye”, Bhoomi Trivedi, Karsan Sagathia, Sukhwinder Singh, from the movie “Raees”)

 

 

More than a day has passed, and not a word. Bulma sighed, her exasperation dissipating in the desert wind, as she, Vegeta and Raditz chased the fifth Dragon Sphere. They had set on march at the first light of the day, as soon as she had explained to the prince their next target was suspiciously moving around in the desert. Vegeta hadn’t spoken to her since their departure, and without Goku’s cheerful chatter, the ride had been silent as the desert itself.

She was not surprised, given what had happened between them. The big and uncomfortable secret stretched the distance between her and the silent prince that rode ahead of her, and even Raditz, judging by his increasing stolen glances, was sensing something was wrong.

Just for one kiss, an innocent moment of intimacy, something even teenagers won’t make a fuss about, Bulma reasoned. But at the same time, she couldn’t erase that kiss from her mind. It wasn’t just the kiss itself that hunted her, not the ghost of touch with the prince’s lips that still lingered on her skin, but the way he had accepted her offer, lowering his defenses just for her, just this once. The way his eyes had closed in abandon and maybe trust, his mute gasps of surprise and pleasure, the faint uncertainty that he couldn’t hide anymore: she couldn’t get _that_ Vegeta - a man made of flesh and bones and emotions - out of her mind.  

Bulma sighed, scolding herself for the unruly thoughts that distracted her from her task, and checked the compass in her hands, shielding it from the harsh light of the late afternoon sun. In the last 3 hours the sphere had remained in the same place, the destination they were finally reaching: whoever its possessor was, he had finally stopped.

She touched the hilt of her dagger, anxiety curling in her belly. They didn’t know what was ahead of them, friends or foes, but she hoped their voyage wouldn’t end in a bloodshed.

She lifted her gaze on Vegeta, riding in front of her, finding him staring at her from behind his shoulder.

She blushed violently, thanking every deity she knew for the turban that covered her flushed face. “We’re almost there,” she said to the prince, watching him nod curtly in response and swiftly turning, as if caught red-handed by staring at her.

When the outline of a small campsite appeared at the horizon, she knew they had finally reached their destination.

The closer they got to the camp, the more it looked like a ghost village. Few tattered tents were scattered around without purpose nor order, while skinny animals wandered among the tents in search of scraps of food. Three men with bony limbs and dark skin were straining to lift a bucket of muddy water from a hole in the sand, while dirty children scurried around, screaming. At their arrival at the camp, everyone abandoned their tasks to gather around the Sayans, watching with weary eyes the weapon dangling from their waists.

“Greetings. We are merchants, and our travel is long and weary. Can we stop here for a while to feed our animals?” asked Raditz, scaring some of the children with his booming voice.

The men looked one another without speaking, so Raditz tried again in another language. Bulma couldn’t recognize the strange dialect, that reminded her a bit of the Sayan language.

“What kind of language is that?” she whispered to Vegeta, breaking the no-speaking rule they had respected the whole day.

“Tarufis,” he whispered back. “These people are what remains of a tribe we used to trade with, back in the old days. Without the Sayan Kingdom to protect them, the Emperor wiped them away.”

A man nodded to Raditz, and after a rapid exchange of words, left to reach the biggest tent of the whole scrawny village.

Bulma looked around, her heart clenching: everyone’s clothes were dirty and tattered, the camp shabby and disorganized, while its inhabitants were clearly striving to survive with few animals and resources. She was moved by the misery that permeated every corner, knowing very well that the Sayans had probably survived very similar conditions. Torn apart, divided and scattered at the four corners of the desert: this could have been their destiny, after the falling of the kingdom and the ruin of the royal family. An entire culture erased from history.

When the man from earlier returned, he said something to Raditz, pointing in her direction. Bulma felt the prince tense, as Raditz eyebrows furrowed dangerously.

“What’s happening?” she asked Vegeta, as everyone’s eyes were suddenly focused on her.

“Their chief wants to see you,” he grumbled.

“Me? But… What do we do?” she stuttered, watching Vegeta dismount swiftly from his horse, his hand never leaving the hilt of his sword.

“For now we play along and see what does the chief want,” he answered, helping her dismount from her dromedary. “Be careful and stay beside me,” the prince added, whispering. “They seem to know who you are. And I don’t like it one bit.”

They left the animals with Raditz, following the Tarufis messenger through the unstable tents, until they reached the biggest one. It was a decadent structure, covered by a patch of different fabrics, torn in some places, with a ruined pelt hanging at its entrance as a shield to the outside world. When Vegeta tried to enter, the man from earlier blocked his way, uttering a bunch of foreign words.

Bulma saw the prince tense and answer back, his tone harsher by the minute.

She touched his shoulder and leaned into his arm, breaching another one of their unspoken rules to calm him down and to ease some of her tension as well.

“What is he saying?”

“The chief wants to see you alone in there,” he growled, glaring at the Tarufis as if his sharp eyes could kill him on the spot.

Bulma watched the prince’s hand close once again on the hilt of his weapon, his knuckles turning white with the force of his hold.

She stared into the darkness that awaited her at the other side of the pelt, seeing nothing.

But something - or someone - was there, calling her name. She could feel it in her heart and in her head. Bulma swallowed, trying to ease the knot that closed her throat, while her hand found Vegeta’s one, squeezing it.

“I’ll go,” she whispered, shushing his protests before he could utter them. “I’ll be fine. I have the dagger with me. You just wait here, I’ll cry out if I need help.”

She watched the prince in the eyes, trying to let him see what she was feeling.

“I’ll be fine. Trust me.”

Vegeta’s gaze darted from her to the Tarufis in front of them, then back to her blue irises.

His eyes narrowed, but he finally nodded, and took a step back to let her pass, huffing nervously.

“Make it quick.”

Bulma reluctantly let go of Vegeta’s hand, the warm sweat collected in her palm instantly turning icy. As the Tarufis man moved aside the pelt, she entered the tent.

She waited a minute on the threshold, to let her eyes adjust to the dim light that filtered from the holes in the tattered roof of the tent. After some time, she spotted the silhouette of a human form, on the opposite side of the shelter. While she was wondering what could she possibly say to this tribe chief, given she didn’t know a word the Tarufis tongue, a feminine voice resonated in the darkness.

“Don’t be afraid, my Lady. Come closer.”

Against every common sense and her own survival-instinct, begging her to turn around and run back to her prince, Bulma took a step forward, until she could make out further details of the stranger before her. It was, indeed, a woman, an old lady that sat cross-legged on a ruined mat. Her hair was white, with splash of silver, flowing on her shoulders in a cascade that touched the dirty floor. In front of her, a blackened crystal ball reflected the shadows and the harsh signs of time of her face.

“I’m Sai Baba, chief and priestess of the Tarufis,” the woman added with her graveled voice, eyes fixed on Bulma’s reflection on rounded surface of the sphere. “Please, sit down. You have nothing to be afraid, Bulma.”

The princess nearly jumped hearing her name, but curiosity won the battle against fear. She swallowed, but crouched in front of the strange woman nonetheless.

“You speak my tongue? And... How do you know my name?”

Sai Baba only smiled, reaching for something in a pocket of her tattered tunic

“I know many things, princess of Capsalis. And I know what you’re looking for,” she said, handing her the fifth Dragon Sphere.

Bulma tormented nervously the hem of her turban, wondering what to do. If she reached for the sphere, Sai Baba words would be confirmed, giving away the true nature of her mission. It could be a trap: the old lady seemed to know too much about her and the spheres, while she hadn’t any clue on her position nor her motivations. She watched her reflection sway on the glossy surface of the golden sphere, that shone like a jewel in the darkness of the tent, tempting and malicious.

As if reading her mind, Sai Baba smiled again, nodding towards the crystal ball between them.

“The spirits and the Gods dance together in my ball, they play with the shadows in the darkness for those willing to see. And I saw many things, my Lady: I saw this strange sphere that was my mother’s, and her mother’s before her. I saw the end of an Empire, a kingdom that yearns to be born again from the ashes of defeat. I saw the battle between a man and a demon, in the quest for power. And I saw you.”

Sai Baba’s eyes focused on hers: they were clear, almost white, and Bulma instantly knew the old lady was blind. She felt those unfocused eyes invading her head, her heart and her soul, reading her thoughts and secrets like an open book.

“You are the key that will unlock many futures, one or the other.”

Bulma was still lost in the white irises of the old lady, when a sudden weight in her palm nearly made her jump: it was the Dragon Sphere, that Sai Baba had put between her hands without her noticing. It was real, cold and heavy as the other ones she and Vegeta had already collected. The thought of the prince made her smile, despite the strange situation. They were one step closer to their target, she could already see their destination in the gold glimmer of the Dragon Sphere in her hands. Her heart beat faster, racing ahead of her mind.

“And what will _my_ future be?” she whispered, watching in awe five little stars dancing in the golden orb.

“I can’t see your future, my Lady,” Sai Baba said, lowering her wrinkled eyes on her darker sphere. “Decisions have yet to be made. But you, and only you, will be the one choosing the path to follow, when the time will come.”

Bulma swallowed, trying to convince herself she didn’t believe in things like magic and divination. But then Sai Baba took her hand, her bony fingers closing on her own in a reassuring squeeze, and her worries just dissolved like sand in the wind. She thought of her mother, wishing for a moment to have her there, at her side, while Sai Baba caressed her cheek with tenderness.

“Don’t be afraid, my child: love guides every step you take. It will light the way for you. Don’t hesitate to follow its lead, and everything will be alright.”  

 

*

 

Vegeta observed his fake wife from the distance, as she played with some Tarufis children among the tents. Her meeting with the tribe chief had been long and unnerving, but just when he was ready to barge in, the woman had appeared on the threshold of the tent, handing him the sacred sphere they were after, without any explanation. But she had asked him to stay at the camp until the next day, to show the Tarufis some of her inventions and help them with their water resources. Vegeta couldn’t say no, not after they had offered them the sphere without arguing, but he remained alert, because danger could be hidden everywhere. He was supposed to be checking the surroundings of the campsite with Raditz, but he couldn’t leave the woman out of his sight, a strange sense of uneasiness clenching his gut.

Bulma’s laughter woke him up from his reverie: she was running after the children, blue strands of hair escaping her braid and dancing in the wind, her smile brighter than the dying sun. Suddenly, a cloaked figure was in front of her, obscuring her view from the prince. Vegeta watched in horror as the stranger grabbed Bulma’s throat with his filthy hands, her fingers scratching uselessly his forearms to get free.

The prince wanted to scream, but for some reason he couldn’t. He ran towards the couple, but his legs were heavy and slow, the distance never shortening. Vegeta ran and ran until his lungs nearly exploded, while cold sweat coated his skin, but for how much he tried he couldn’t reach Bulma and her assailant. He watched with wide eyes his wife’s lips turning a sickening shade of blue, her struggles becoming weaker as minutes passed, until her arms fell limp along her lifeless body. Choking in another soundless scream, he finally reached the stranger, grabbing his shoulder with the ferocity of a wild lion. As Bulma’s body dissolved into sand, he froze, his frightened reflection trembling in the dark eyes of the man in front of him. The Djinn’s cruel smirk - _his own_ cruel smirk - pierced his chest like a dagger, ripping him apart and crushing his sternum like an empty seashell.

“Did you truly believe you could keep her safe from me?” the demon said in his own voice, chuckling darkly, a sound that he knew so well that turned his blood into ice. “She’s _mine_.”

Vegeta woke up with a start, heart throbbing in his rib cage like a frightened animal. Darkness surrounded him, and he tried to orientate himself, still breathing hard and sweating. In the dim light of the night he recognized the outline of the tent the Tarufis had lent to him and his wife, until his eyes spotted Bulma’s form laid on the mat beside him, under the covers. He reached for her, suddenly afraid. His fingers grazed her lips, trembling as her steady breath bounced on his skin and warmed the blood in his veins. Vegeta exhaled shakily, trying to calm his heart and regain some composure. His knuckles slid along Bulma’s cheek, finding warm skin and some loose strands of hair he swiftly tucked behind her ear, before he could stop himself. He scooted closer to the woman, trying to steal a bit of her warmth. Why this strange nightmare? The Djinn, his old self, used to be an unwanted companion of his restless nights, but not like this. Never like this. He squinted at the woman’s profile, outlined by the silver light of the crescent moon that seeped through the tent.

It was all her fault. Couldn’t she leave him alone, even in his sleep?

His index found once again the curve of Bulma’s mouth, following it as if he could find his answers in the soft warmth of her parted lips. That thing they did some nights before, the kiss, it still hunted him like a plague, messing with his mind and senses. Making him _want_ , when he knew painstakingly well he could never have something to call his and only his in this life. The prince got closer, observing every detail on the woman’s face, searching for some sort of trick or deceit that could explain the intoxication he felt in his blood. His nose grazed her cheek, in the same way she had done it just few nights before. He wanted to feel again that shiver, the promise of bliss that hid in the inner fold of her lips, the forbidden taste of her tongue as it dueled with his own. He wanted it all, and so much more…

_She’s mine._

The Djinn’s smirk made him shudder and jerk back violently, stifling a growl. Vegeta took a deep breath, tugging painfully at the roots of his hair: this was madness, pure madness.

A gentle touch on his hand startled him again but it was Bulma, watching him through unfocused and sleepy eyes.

“What is it? Are we attacked?” she whispered, tiredness blurring the edges of her concern.

Vegeta swallowed, carefully extracting his hand from her fingers.

“No, go back to sleep. It’s nothing.”

But she turned towards him, fully on her side - because she couldn’t follow a single order, even if her life depended on it -, her blue eyes already searching and uncovering everyone of his lies and secrets.

“Bad dreams?” she finally asked.

Caught off guard, the prince shook his head in denial, hoping at the same time to get rid of the last remnants of his nightmare. But even if half asleep, the damn woman couldn’t leave him alone.

“Come here…” she said, taking his hand once again.

Vegeta sighed, too tired to argue, laying down next to her, on his side.

Suddenly, she pulled his face towards hers, until their foreheads were almost touching.

“Are you trying to bribe me in that kiss-thing again?” he whispered, trying with all his might to hide his anticipation.

Bulma chuckled, her warm breath bouncing on his face and making him shiver involuntarily.

“Do you want me to?”

Vegeta remained silent: the distance between what he wanted and what he could have, was wider than the desert itself and he wasn’t ready to make that journey yet, following the dangerous path his foggy mind was suggesting.

Bulma didn’t wait for his answer and closed her eyes, smiling. She reached for his nape with her hand, scratching and caressing the unruly hair at the base of his neck. It took Vegeta all his willpower not to purr like a cat in heat.

When she started humming - a quiet lullaby he had never heard of - the prince glanced one last time at the woman in front of him, through lidded eyes. In the dim light of the moon, her lashes glistened like the morning dew, fluttering imperceptibly in time with her whispered melody. A stray lock of hair, escaped from her night braid, fell gently on her cheek, stretching towards her lips like a river reaching for the sea. Just an inch closer, his foggy brain reasoned. He could lean forward, just an inch, and he could feel those lips on his once again. One inch closer, and he could have it all. _Mine._

When the prince surrendered to sleep, he dreamed of the warm embrace of calm and crystal waters, filtering through the cracks of his dry heart and touching his thirsty soul.

 

*

 

The buzz of people chatting and laughing filtered through the tent with the last rays of the sun. The sounds of the Sayan camp, swarming with the excitement for the festival preparation, mingled together in the humid air of the evening with the delicious smell of roasted meat and other delicacies. Bulma checked absently her reflection on the big mirror in ChiChi’s tent, while her friend prepared her for the main Ghermez event of the evening.

The richly embroidered dress she wore was in stark contrast with the misery of the Tarufis Camp she had left behind a few days before. The burgundy choli-top was trimmed high on her stomach, the golden hem following the dramatic dip of her bare waist, while the ruffles of her 24 yards skirt opened up from her hips like the scarlet petals of a flower. As ChiChi fastened the embroidered belt, encrusted with metal plates and gems, the princess couldn’t refrain from thinking of the discolored and tattered tunics of the Tarufis, the absence of resources or jewelry and the desolate sparseness of the tent she and Vegeta had woken up in the morning of their departure.

She intercepted ChiChi’s gaze in the mirror, while her sister-in-law put a heavy necklace made of decorated metal plates around her collarbone.

“This dress was my mother’s,” her friend said, answering her silent question. “I had worn it for my first Ghermez with Goku and at my marriage. But it looks really good on you, too.”

Bulma touched the pendant that rested on her cleavage, a tear-shaped ruby, red and shiny as blood just spilled.

“Are you sure it’s not a problem for me to take it?” she asked. “What if Goku comes back in time for the dances?”

ChiChi chuckled bitterly.

“As much as I hope it, I don’t think he will be back soon. Don’t worry, and enjoy Ghermeez for me too, okay?” she added, winking. “Maybe the dances, the music and the wine will help our prince to loosen up a bit, what do you say?”

Bulma snorted. “Loosen up? He doesn’t even know what the word means.”

But she had had a glimpse of it: Vegeta, eyes closed, his features smoothed by sleep, relaxed and peaceful, with his face hidden in the crook of her neck and the calm rhythm of his breath warming on her skin. The prince had looked so young and innocent when she had woken up, after their night at the Tarufis camp, she nearly hadn’t recognized him. Bulma still remembered how she had kept her breath, with her fingers still tangled in his hair, afraid that the smallest movement could break the spell her prince was under. She had waited and waited, cherishing the weight of the arm draped around her waist, the heartbreaking realness of it, and wondering what would feel like to wake up every day with the feel of his body next to hers.

“Bulma? Are you all right?”

ChiChi’s voice brought her back to the present, a slap of reality. Like the one that had hit her square in the face, that strange morning.

She had known the moment Vegeta had woken up: his body had stiffened, and after a minute he had abruptly leaped away from, so fast as if he’d seen a snake. She had pretended to be still asleep, listening as the prince had dressed himself urgently, darting out of the tent without looking back. She had waited, until her heart had slowed its pace and her disappointment had faded. Their return home had been as silent as the outward journey.

“I’m alright,” she lied to ChiChi, “I’m just nervous. What if I forget the moves?”

“You won’t.”

One step forward, two steps back. That was the dance she and Vegeta were so skillfully following. ChiChi finished draping a silky veil on her shoulder and took her hand reassuringly.

“You’ll be fine. Trust me on this.”

She trusted ChiChi. But rejection was a sneaky bastard, and she didn’t want to make a fool of herself. Not again, not with Vegeta. She couldn’t stand it, for reasons she - a genius, for crying out loud - didn’t manage to understand.

“What if he won’t answer my invitation?”

ChiChi pinched her playfully.

“Then he’d be a fool. A stupid, blind and ungrateful fool.”

When Bulma crossed her sister-in-law’s eyes in the big mirror, they were serious and sincere. Wasn’t she the fool? Playing with fire, and wanting the only man she couldn’t have, even if he was technically her husband. Or maybe they were both fools, denying themselves something the both wanted. Was it really wrong to follow her desires, once in a while? To take something for her own pleasure, instead of constantly forgetting herself for the world’s sake?

She smiled as the faint echo of music entered the tent. The musicians were already rehearsing, tuning their ouds and lutes, while the drummers stretched the skin on their tablas. Some men were already chanting, a beautiful tune with words Bulma couldn’t translate.

“What does the lyrics say?” she asked ChiChi, trying to change the subject.

Her friend chuckled, listening a moment to the music.

“It’s a Ghermeez song. It says: _I’ve tasted blood._ _It was asleep in my veins, but now it's awake. By touching of lips, from the corner of dreams, I’ve tasted blood_. So poetic, right?”

Bulma blushed, her mind drifting to the night she and Vegeta had kissed. Had it been a mistake, a slip of control? Or a moment of truth, bigger than the lie they had been building with so much care? She chuckled nervously, feeling her cheeks warming up.

“Why do you Sayans always have to bring war into everything? Even love is a battle, now?”

“Oh, but love is a battle!” said ChiChi, fixing the jeweled _kundan_ dangling from Bulma’s intricate hairstyle. “The challenge, the fight for control, the thrill of the hunt and the conquering… It’s a battle of desires.”

Bulma snorted, lifting the hem of her skirt, as ChiChi fastened two metal anklets at her feet.

“Love shouldn’t be a battle. It should be easy, simple. Spontaneous.”

The Sayan woman rose to her feet, taking a step back to better admire her work.

“Maybe. But the things you have to fight hard to get, are the ones really worth fighting for,” she said, nodding towards the mirror. Bulma turned, and couldn’t refrain a gasp.

The woman in front of her was dashing: a stranger with her hair and eyes, but a different attitude that didn’t belong to the reflection Bulma had left in the mirrors at home.

In those foreign clothes, red as the flames of hell, she felt beautiful, but also powerful. Regal. A fierce and brave queen, ready for a kind of battle that didn’t require weapons, but that was as savage and dangerous as a frontal attack. Bulma watched herself for the first time with new eyes, with Sayan eyes. The woman in the mirror stared back, defying her, challenging her to live up to the image that was shown to her. The image of a woman who knew what she wanted and was ready to take it.

Her spine was straight, her gaze set. The dagger Vegeta gave her - the queen’s dagger - was fastened at her belt, the veil draped on her shoulder like an impenetrable shield. If the prince of all Sayans wanted war, she would give him one. Bulma smiled and the woman in the mirror smiled back. She was ready.  

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beware of our mighty Queen Bulma, when she put her eyes on something. Or someone, in this case. Poor Vegeta doesn’t know what’s in store for him…
> 
> Even if the title of this whole fic is referring to Vegeta, Bulma is the real main character of this story: I just realized she is the one taking all the decisions! But when I think about her and Vegeta, it all makes sense for me. I think this is how everything happened between them: Bulma taking the initiative and Vegeta trying to figure out what hit him square in the face. xD
> 
> That’s why I included Sai Baba and her words: in the end Bulma, with her choices, will be the one deciding her future (and everyone else’s). Let’s see where it will take us (even if you might already have a clue…).
> 
> The song ChiChi quoted is a real Bollywood song, “Lahu munh lag gaya” from the beautiful movie “Goliyon Ki Raasleela - Ram-Leela” and I wanted to include it in the story because I find it simply perfect for the Sayan culture. Even the dress Bulma’s wearing is inspired by the red one worn by the main female character in the movie. 
> 
> Another cultural reference: a kundan is an Indian headpiece, similar to a tiara and fixed with a brooch. 
> 
> Thank you for your comments and support, and please go visit RutBisbe on her Tumblr because her fanarts of this fic are simply awesome and I'm crying with joy everytime she creates art. :3
> 
> Oh and, just so you know, you can put away the sun block (Emmy_Tee <3 ): the slow burn is finally coming to an end... *evil laughter*


	11. Paint me red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She goes in for the kill. She has a war to win, and she will make the walls of his heart crumble at her feet. 
> 
> WATCH OUT: NSFW content ahead (finally!)
> 
> Soundtrack: “Romance”, by Mamak Khadem; “Ghoomar” by Shreya Ghoshal and Swaroop Khan from the movie “Padmaavati”; “Tere ishq nachaya” by Sona Mohapatra; “Lahu munh lag gaya” by Shail Hada from the movie “Goliyon ki Raasleela Ram-Leela”

 

_ I see you, enraptured, _

_ touch my glass-like, untouched body _

_ Why do you just keep looking at it? _

_ Don’t tease me, paint me red _

( _ Mohe rang do laal _ , by  Sanjay Leela Bhansali, from the movie “Bajirao Mastani” )

 

 

Vegeta stifled a growl.

Seated by the place of honor by the bonfire, he watched with increasing discomfort his people laughing and chanting all around him: this cheerfulness always managed to make his skin crawl, with a sense of unease and maybe envy. The way his men managed to let themselves go, indulging without shame and restraint in alcohol and the company of their lovers, amazed and horrified the prince at the same time. Losing control like that, it was inconceivable for a member of the royal family, a shameful occurrence that must be avoided. 

As if to prove him wrong, Raditz stumbled at his side, his face already red with exertion and a stupid grin stretched from ear to ear. 

“Did you see how many beauties are all dressed up this year? I don’t know where to start… Hey, Caulifla,” he howled at a muscular girl passing by them, winking like a maniac, “will you invite me to dance with you, this year?”

“Keep on dreaming, Raditz!” 

“Oh, sweetheart! You hurt me, don’t be like that…”

The girl flicked her ridiculous mass of black hair with a haughty gesture of her hand, dismissing his cousin.

“The day you’ll beat me in a fight, I’ll think of it,” she added, reaching her friends at the other side of the circle.

“Oh, I’ll get you, little one: that’s a promise!”

Vegeta planted a fist in his cousin’s shoulder, already at the limit of his patience.

“Shut up, and stop making a fool of yourself, idiot!” he seethed, through gritted teeth. Gods, how he hated those stupid festivals… “Any news from your equally demented brother?”

Raditz only shrugged, massaging his bruised shoulder miserably.

“Not yet. But the King and our battalion has left more than a month ago, who knows how far they’ll be by now? Maybe they managed to reach dad’s territory…”

Vegeta growled with impatience. For how much he wanted to beat Raditz until he sobered up, his cousin was right: many weeks of march separated Bardock’s battalion from the main camp. If the King had managed to reach him, it would require more than one week to get in touch with them, or even send a messenger. But Vegeta couldn’t get out of his mind the foreboding sensation something was wrong. He didn’t have the time nor the mood for these stupid dances and celebrations. 

A nagging feeling had been haunting him since their return from the Tarufis camp. The dream, the woman… he was starting to think he was losing his mind, the thought of her never leaving him alone. So he had avoided her like a plague after their return, sparring and training every night into stupor to have at least one peaceful, dreamless sleep: it was all useless. She was crawling under his skin like poison, an itch he couldn’t get rid of, a weight that squeezed his lungs, making every breath difficult. Vegeta’s hands balled into fists, while the bonfire crackled and the flames took the form of a feminine body. The prince shook his head: he had to leave, get some fresh air.

He was going to get up and leave, but a woman’s voice stopped him.

“Where do you think you’re going,  _ your highness _ ?” ChiChi asked, sitting down next to him. “It’s your duty as the royal heir to attend to Ghermez celebrations, or have you forgotten your place?”

If his stare could kill, the harpy would be already rotting away, by now. 

“Don’t test my patience ChiChi,” Vegeta growled menacingly. “Where’s the damn woman, anyway? Doesn’t she know she has to attend to this circus as well?”

ChiChi’s smirk was equally ironic and sinister, and it didn’t bode well. At all.

“Don’t worry. She’ll be here in time for the start of the dances…”

“Hey Chi, you’re not dancing this year?” asked Raditz, grinning like the idiot he was. “Want me to keep you company?” 

ChiChi didn’t even grace him with a look.

“Raditz, you know I love you like a brother. But make another comment like that, and you might lose an appendage. One you’re very fond of…”

Vegeta snorted, hiding a smirk: his esteem of Kakarott’s bride had just risen again. 

Suddenly the music started, among the cheers of the Sayans gathered around the fire: tablas and cymbals rattled with a frantic rhythm while lutes and ouds followed the lead of the singers in a heartfelt chant.

Ghermez was madness, red and raw. Like love, like battle. It was the frenzy spin of a dervish, the spilling blood at the end of the hunt, war drums at the horizon.

Vegeta looked around, wondering where the hell his fake wife was. When the dancers emerged from a nearby tent, he spotted a well-known splash of blue in the middle of the red wave. She stood among the women, at the center of the circle, dressed like a Sayan queen, with a bowl of red paint in her hands. When her gaze crossed his own, the smile that lit her face smashed his rib-cage with the force of a spear. Vegeta swallowed, suddenly unable to focus on anything but her approaching figure, steps sure and unfaltering. 

She bowed and crouched before him, taking his hands and dipping his palms in the red powder that filled the bowl. With her own stained fingers she traced a red line on his forehead and chin, her thumb lingering a moment more there, stroking his bottom lip absentmindedly. Time stopped there, the earth stilled on its axis while the moon took a dip in her cerulean eyes, shining with the reflection of the bonfire.  

When she stood once more, skirts swirling and eyes blazing, Vegeta realized he had stopped breathing altogether. 

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from her, as Bulma rejoiced the circle of women by the fire, dancing with them at the rhythm of the drums and chants. Stray locks of hair, escaped from her updo, flickered like blue flames, setting on fire his senses. Her skin was golden at the light of the fire, shimmering in the orange light with a thin veil of perspiration. 

He shook himself when Raditz elbowed him not at all gently on the ribs. 

“She invited you. What are you waiting for?” he whispered.

He watched his painted palms, as if they could tell him what to do. All around him other men, their hands equally painted, started to stand to join their lovers in the dance. 

That was the tradition, Vegeta reasoned. It could arouse suspicion if the royal couple didn’t participate at this celebration. As Vegeta stood up, he shrugged off his previous daze. She had set up a hell of a show, but it was just that: a show. 

Under the eyes and cheers of his people, the prince joined his spouse in the dancing circle. She instantly took his hand, red kissing red, as her lips curved in a gracious smile. 

A show, Vegeta repeated to himself. Nothing more.

She twirled before his eyes, following the steps of that feverish dance made for grabbing and reaching out, a dance to forget themselves, all rules and inhibitions and sorrows. 

He followed her - he didn’t seem to be able to do much more nowadays - taking her touches, yearning for more. But it was only a show for the others to see, to believe.

She spun like a dervish, eyes closed and mouth slightly agape, and he wanted nothing more than grab her, and hold her, and...

She opened her eyes, her face suddenly close to his own.

“Touch me, Vegeta, dance with me!” she playfully scolded him, spurning him on.

Her eyes were suddenly the center of the universe, the sun around which his being revolved, spinning endlessly without reaching its burning core. As she twirled around once more, he grabbed her wrist, making her bounce on his chest. He reached for her face, his other hand leaving red stains on her cheek and neck: a mark, a promise.

The light in her eyes never faltering, she grinned and did the same to him, a long caress that ended at the base of his throat, where his tunic hung half open. Laughter bubbled up in her throat, and he could feel it reverberate through his fingers and his chest, where she pressed her body to his. Her lips on his neck took him by surprise, burning his skin and leaving a different kind of mark on him.

It was only a show, but for Vegeta it was suddenly too much. 

As the music and the chants faded away, she giggled and parted from him, slipping from his grip as easily as water. Her skirts fluttered promising as she scurried to their tent, stopping once to look at him over her shoulder. Her eyes pierced the darkness with the sweetest call, and he couldn’t do much more than answer.

 

*

 

Bulma waited, seated on his bed, the warm hue of the bonfire and the festive torches filtering through the tent and bathing the world in orange and gold. She watched the prince part the curtains and enter, his stance tense and wary. His skin and tunic were smeared in red, the shape of her fingers drawing her mark on him. Itt suited him, she thought, as something possessive stirred and curled in her belly. She watched Vegeta in the eyes, waiting patiently for his next move, felling like a predator ready to strike. After a pause, the prince came closer, towering over her, his trademark scowl once again on its place. She smiled and a vein in his forehead twitched, while his hands balled into fists. For how much he tried to hide it, she could see his self-imposed control starting to slip. 

“You put on one hell of a show tonight,” he seethed.

She took in his remark without flinching, her smile never faltering, knowing the soft curve of her mouth was the best weapon to make his walls crumble at her feet. She had a war to win, after all. So Bulma decided to let him bask in his false sense of dominance a little more.

“What show?” 

He snorted and crossed his arms, a defensive position she started to know so well.

“You, dancing in the circle, with Sayan garbs on, as if you’re one of us. As if you really were my wife. Smart move,” he added with a smirk, but the bitter sarcasm in his voice didn’t escape her ears. The spark of the challenge set her blood on fire even more, but it was the last and desperate blow of an opponent already on his knees. 

“Oh, a great show, indeed…” she cooed, suddenly getting up and grabbing the front of his tunic. He was taken aback by her bold move, for he tumbled over her on the bed. Her nose touched his own as she fixed her blue eyes on his, feeling the prince gasp.

“But the greatest show of all is you trying to hide your desire for me.”

Bulma watched him swallow and grit his teeth in outrage, but the prince didn’t try to stand.

“What game are you playing, woman?”

She curled her lips in a new smile, watching her hand stain the collar of his tunic then the skin underneath, over his heart. She could feel its rapid beats, and the crescendo of his breathing matching her own. He could be the one towering over her, but she was the one with the power. The power to end this agonizing battle once and for all, freeing them both.

“I’m not playing. In fact, I’m more honest than you with what I want,” she whispered.

She felt the prince swallow, the thin strip of air between them suddenly hot and charged with electricity. Her hand crawled on his nape, reaching for the fine hair at the base of his scalp. Vegeta’s eyes fluttered with a shiver, and she knew victory was hers, the exciting realization igniting her bones like torches.

“And what do you want?” Vegeta finally asked, eyes travelling from her blue ones to her mouth. His deep voice sizzled and rumbled on her skin like the prelude to a sandstorm, but she wasn’t afraid: she had always craved the thrill of danger and adventures.

His back irises smoldered in the dark, and it was as if a veil has lifted, leaving them bare and open for her to see the truth underneath.

Her lips trembled on his own.

“You. I want you.”

 

*

 

He lowered his head while hers rose, their lips meeting and crashing halfway. The feeling of her tongue smoothing over his lip, probing his mouth open, delving and pressing for more, made Vegeta struggle to get his thoughts together coherently. The kiss tasted like water at the end of an endless journey, a long awaited prize he had imagined and replayed so many times in his mind, so deliciously foreign. A kaleidoscope of sensations flooded his brain and his nerves: her hands roaming on his back, the slow but steady grind of their bodies through the clothes, igniting sparks and flames just from friction, quenching an ache he didn’t know he felt.

Suddenly she pushed him, sitting up to undo the strings of his half opened tunic, leaving feather-like kisses along the trail of her nimble fingers. Vegeta closed his eyes, enjoying the new and foreign sensations her lips could create while she undressed him, sinking his hand in her hair to unbraid it. He freed the blue mass from pins and jewels that he let drop on the floor one by one, along with the scraps of his restraint and his abandoned shirt. The prince ran his fingers through her soft waves, staining them with red paint, ruining her headdress like everything he touched. But after seeing her look at him with shining eyes and a smile so naughty that could destroy a saint’s resolve, he longed to ruin her more and more. 

She reached behind her back for the strings of her top, loosing them in a swift move, and laying down again so that his palms, skimming on her shoulder and arms in a languid caress, could peel the embroidered fabric from her skin. Then she paused, laid bare in front of him like a painting, loose hairs spread on his cushions with reckless abandon, the gentle swell of her breasts rising in sync with her heaving chest. Vegeta took a moment to properly appreciate the view, fire burning through his veins, hot and sizzling like the anticipation he used to feel before a decisive battle. The way Bulma waited for him, inviting the prince of nothing to a feast worthy of a king, made something in his chest swell and quiver. Vegeta had never had anything so beautiful he could call his own. He knew he didn’t possess her - she was of no one, free and elusive like water - but the thought to have her all for himself, even if for just one night, made his fingers tremble on her skin. Her open arms reached for him, and for once Vegeta happily surrendered himself without resistance. 

Her hands were everywhere on his body, gentle and delicate, roaming on his torso and hips, followed by her adoring gaze, as if he was a long awaited treasure, something precious and fragile. He felt her fingers graze his hips as they turned inward, finding him already hard and straining under her touches. She caressed him, palm sure and warm through the fabric of his pants, teasing fingers on his length and her eyes filling every space inside and outside of him. He groaned and when she  breathed "you feel so good” in his ear, he clung with all forces to his willpower, not to spill himself right there. 

She always touched him at every chance, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. As if he belonged to her. But it was his time to grab, fondle and caress without restraint, answering to her silent challenge. 

He dove in for another kiss, nipping and licking the delicate skin of her neck, while his hands filled with the soft flesh of her breasts. Her nipples hardened under his rough palms, and he couldn’t stop himself from sucking one into his mouth, eliciting a gasp from Bulma. His other hand closed on her long and shapely leg, one slow stroke from ankle to thigh that lifted her skirts, while he grabbed the perfect shape of her ass, teasing with a finger the moist lips between her legs.

She trembled under him, tugging at the roots of his hair and sighing his name. It was so beautiful, whispered like that, with so much care and adoration, that the sound made him pause in his ministrations. She exploited his moment of wonder to wriggle out of her skirts, revealing to him other valleys of naked skin to map and discover. 

He resumed his journey lower and lower, tracing the shell of her navel with his tongue and making her giggle. When he reached the soft patch of blue curls under her abdomen, he looked up: she was watching him, eyes wide and dark with hunger and desire, shining above the curves of her body like two moons over the dunes. When he dove in the wet world between her legs, her fingers clenched in his hair, and she moaned loudly, a dirty and sinful sound that made his whole spine shudder with pleasure. Vegeta licked and kissed the petal soft skin there, wet beyond every dream, savoring her salty-sweet taste while she bucked and writhed under his grip. He tormented again and again the nub of flesh at the apex of her sex without rest, wanting to see her at his mercy, losing control and reason in the same way she had made him lose his mind and sleep in the past weeks. He sucked fervently at her wet folds until she shuddered uncontrollably, panting and arching like a bow at the splitting point, ready to dart its deadly arrow. 

“Ve-Vegeta…”

Her throaty plead struck him in the heart, pleasure spreading through his veins like molten lava, reaching his groin and making him jolt and grind himself against the rough covers of the bed. He groaned, lapping one last time her sex with tongue and lips, feeling her come undone, muscles tensing and relaxing, bones turning into liquid heat while she cried his name once more. 

Vegeta lifted his head, dizzy and aroused beyond reason, licking lazily his lips in front of the mess she was reduced to. Bulma was breathing hard, all ruffled hair, glazed eyes and red cheeks. A beautiful mess, she was. He literally ripped away his pants, freeing his desperate erection under her still unfocused gaze. 

Suddenly her arms were around his neck, bringing his body down to hers again,  as she rubbed her drenched sex along his painfully hard cock. The prince couldn’t refrain a moan while her legs closed on his waist, urging him on, and for how much he tried he couldn’t deny her what she wanted, because he craved it too. 

When his cock breached her folds open, he paused to let her adjust and to calm his raging need, that threatened to make him cross the point of no return. Vegeta struggled to open his eyes, finding her own blue irises a mere inch from his own. Time stretched out, punctuated only by their ragged breaths, while they observed one another in the darkness. After a while, Bulma wriggled her hips, taking his breath away. She clawed at his shoulder, dragging her teeth on the lobe of his ear. “Please…”

Vegeta moved, eliciting another moan from the woman underneath him, the friction of their bodies so good and hypnotic, he lost himself in it for a moment. He sucked at the slick skin of her neck, groaning in her ear when his cock hit a particular spot inside her that made her clamp on him and claw at his back. 

“Harder…” she stuttered, between pants and whimpers.

He changed his pace, movements becoming urgent and unrestrained, while her cunt rippled around his shaft in a vice-like grip that made him tremble in pleasure from head to toes. Vegeta groaned again, bowing his head in front of the intensity of it all, hiding his face in the crook of her neck to seek shelter from the wave that threatened to swallow him whole. But Bulma was everywhere: she was soft skin filling his hands, blue hair invading his view, tender words of encouragement in his ear, her taste in his mouth and her smell tickling his nostrils. He was surrounded, the feel of her flooding his whole being, invading his senses and his mind until he forgot about Frieza, the spheres and his name; until he knew nothing but Bulma  _ Bulma Bulma _ and the world exploded behind his eyelids, blue and blinding like a star. 

  
  


 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I'm so so sorry for the delay, but the last weeks had been delirious. Plus, I read and re-read this chapter nearly 100 times, and every time I was less satisfied than the previous, until I couldn't take it anymore and re-wrote it entirely... other 100 times. I had to publish it before going mad, so here we are: I hope it's at least passable, after waiting for so long! >.<
> 
> All I wanted was to write some Au Vegebul smut, but somehow it turned in a 11 chapters slow burn and a whole story still unfurling in my head. It’s life for you.  
> I had to cut this chapter short, but don’t worry: it will not be the only hot scene, I swear. ;)
> 
> I cannot thank you enough for all the beautiful comments (gracias ukyryo: mi espanol no es muy bueno, pero tu comentario me emocioné muchìsimo!), and if you're interested I'm searching for a beta-reader to check my language slips and errors. 
> 
> Oh, and please go check RutBisbe on her Tumblr, because her new fanart about the fic is, as usual, amazing and heartbreaking and I'm head over heels for her <3


	12. Sweet surrender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He thought once would have been enough, she thought to be the hunter. They were both wrong. 
> 
>  
> 
> Once again, watch out: NSFW material ahead! :P
> 
> Sountrack: “Mohe rang do laal”, by Sanjay Leela Bhansali, from the movie “Bajirao Mastani”; “Binte dil”, by Arijit Singh from the movie “Padmaavat”;

 

 

_Then she began to sway, her beauty amazed me._

_Surrender, surrender_

_She imprisoned me with a glance._

_She was a swaying branch that consumed me._

_My beloved’s beauty drives me to distraction_

_Surrender, surrender_

 

(“Stardust - Lamma bada”, Mamak Khadem)

 

 

 

Warm. He felt so warm and cozy, that his mind drifted to his childhood, through the memories of sunny afternoons spent in the orange grove. The sensation was overwhelming, a deep sense of contentment he had rarely felt in his miserable life. As Vegeta came back to his senses, emerging slowly from the slumber, he sighed, lungs expanding leisurely and without resistance for once. Peaceful. A thick feminine scent was the first thing his still numb senses registered, along with the feeling of a warm and soft body in his arms.

Vegeta slowly opened his eyes, observing his surroundings with a sense of dejà vu.

The feeble light of the dawn wasn’t enough to clear his view, but he could make out Bulma’s silhouette beside him, her naked shoulder peeping from the covers and his own arms, still wound tightly around her form and entangled in her hair. The prince tensed, fighting the urge to cower and put some distance between them. His body had once again betrayed him, surrendering to the inexplicable need to reach for her in his sleep, as if craving her touch, the contact of skin against skin. Their awakening at the Tarufis camp replayed in the prince’s mind, like a distant memory. He had been scared, that first time, to find her so close to him, literally and figuratively. Afraid of that pathetic slip of control he had sworn not to repeat. No distraction until he reached his goal, no attachment nor chances of failure. And there he was, with the very same woman in his arms, after a night of passion he couldn’t stop replaying in his mind, stirring a new and intense surge of desire that flooded his veins.

Vegeta slowly - and somehow reluctantly - withdrew his limbs from her body, leaning on his elbow to better study the elegant curve of her nape and shoulder, blue tendrils of hair striping her skin like the mane of a tiger.

How had she managed to do that? What could this woman have in her that had drawn a demon like him, like a moth to the light? He couldn’t explain it, and that unnerved him even more. Vegeta leaned forward, slowly following the delicate profile of the woman with a finger, marveling at her lips, still red and swollen from their many kisses. She was beautiful, sure, but he had seen his fair share of beauties at Frieza’s court to last for a lifetime, none of them holding his interest for long. But she was also smart, and insolent, always challenging him and his patience, and at the same time making him want to be better, just for the sake of it. Or maybe, he reasoned, absentmindedly tucking away a stray lock of hair from her face, it was something else: her trust in him, though inexplicable, was like a drug. She believed in him, somehow, and as the rest of the world looked at the Lost Prince with fear and pity, she saw the man he was. Or the one he could have been. And that, even if Vegeta wasn’t ready to admit it, scared the hell out of him.

The woman stirred in her sleep, and the prince was abruptly aware of two things: their nudity and his own body, suddenly very, very awake. No, it couldn’t happen again.

Vegeta swallowed, breathing through his nose, trying to regain control of his flesh while extricating himself from that dangerous tangle of limbs. He needed to train, to refocus his whole being finding solace in his routine of sweat and hard work.

The prince searched for his pants in the dark, putting the garment on with haste, but when he reached the entrance of the tent, pulling aside the heavy curtain, a voice made him freeze on the spot.

“Are you sure you want to go out like that?”

Vegeta jerked and turned, staring nervously at the woman now seated on his bed. With the feeble light of the dawn entering the tent and bouncing on Bulma’s skin, he could understand what she meant: her body was covered in red marks and stains, and he could recognize the signs left by his painted fingerprints on her arms and torso. She was observing his body too, a playful glint in her eyes, and he didn’t have to check to know his skin was an equal canvas splashed in red, tainted by her touches. He stifled a frustrated growl. No, he couldn’t go out like that, his own body literally screaming at the world the illicit occupation of his night.

She giggled at his irritation and got up to dip a piece of fabric in a nearby basin, squeezing it and letting the excess of water drip through her fingers.

“Come here,” she called him, once again seated on the covers, naked.

Vegeta felt his body move on its own toward the bed, while a voice in his head screamed to get out of that tent that smelled of sex and _her._ Get out and save himself and what was left of his sanity, while he still could. Instead, he sat beside the woman, letting her clean his body with the cloth, at the same time eyeing every stain and sign on her skin, a colored map of forbidden touches from their steamy night of passion. When his wandering eyes reached her face, he found only contentment on her features: her hair was tousled and thrown carelessly over one shoulder, and she was humming to herself, totally unbothered by her nakedness. Her touch was delicate but sure, the same of some hours ago, reverent and teasing at once. And it was distracting him, a lot.

“Take off your pants,” she said, startling him, when she finished cleaning his torso. As usual, he complied, stretching on his bed and hoping his body wouldn't betray him again, revealing how much her closeness affected him. When she finished wiping away the red stains on his legs, she handed him the fabric.

“Could you…?”

Vegeta nodded, sitting up to take the still damp cloth from her hands. She turned around, seated on her folded legs, swiping her hair aside on one shoulder to show him her unmarred back.

The feel of her skin was something he couldn’t quite get accustomed to: soft and warm, dotted by goose bumps when the cool rag swiped over some sensitive spots, drenched in a mix of his smell and her own unique scent; it called to him, enticing his touches like a magnet, like the needle of her compass to the spheres. He watched the signs left by his stained hands fade and dissolve, but it only spurred him to leave other marks on her.

Suddenly the woman laid back, aligning her spine to his chest and giving him space to wash her torso and arms from behind. The total abandon with which she laid her head on his shoulder, showing her jugular to him without any fear, was appalling and foreign to him.

His hands wandered on her arm and chest, gently rubbing at the delicate skin between her breasts and when her nipples puckered, just begging to be touched and tormented again and again, he knew with painful clarity that his fate was sealed.

She sighed, turning her head, and he could feel her victorious smile imprinted on his neck.  
"Vegeta..."  
How in the world could he resist to that siren's call?  
He let his hands roam lower on her body, the rag discarded and forgotten, turning his head just a little to trace her lips with his tongue while her hand clenched and unclenched on his nape, pulling gently at his hair. His fingers dipped between her legs, and lingered there, until he felt her shudder and sigh against his lips.  
"Say it again," he breathed.

He couldn't recognize his voice, raspy and deep, as if coming from an unknown and unreachable place inside him. The spheres could wait, the reproaches of his father were a distant memory, nothing was more important than hearing her say his name like that, once again.  
She smiled, wicked and bewitched by his touches at the same time, whispering those three syllables that meant the world to him with that vulgar and sultry voice of hers.  
"Vegeta."

He closed the distance, tasting his own name on her lips, tongue delving in the moist heat of her mouth looking for her alluring accent and swallowing her sighs.

Still dizzy from the depth of their kiss, he bent her over, tracing each vertebra of her spine with his mouth, hands still lost between her legs, and his throbbing sex drawing wet trails on her buttocks and thighs. He could be selfish for once, Vegeta reasoned, shifting his weight over her and palming her curves, every inch of supple skin he could reach. He could indulge in her warmth and take what was offered to him, to quench this thirst for pleasure, the sudden hunger for this woman that moved her hips dangerously on his erection.

With his lips on her neck and his whole body pressed to hers, he could feel her sighs and groans vibrate through his chest, not knowing which moans were whom anymore.

He pushed in, biting his lips to prevent another shameful sound to erupt from his throat as  the damp heat of her core made his knees buckle. Bulma’s eyes shined, from behind her shoulder, her hair spread on the sheets like a blue fire he couldn’t put out or even dare to contain anymore.  
They found themselves in the same tangle of limbs of the previous night, his resolve abandoned like his pants, forgotten on the floor, while the sun rose and the light invaded every dark corner around them.

 

*

 

When Bulma woke up, much later, the sun was already high in the sky, but surprisingly the prince was still in his bed. More precisely, in his bed with her. Draped over his chest like a blanket, she lingered there, enjoying the feeling of his fingers skimming absentmindedly over her back, up and down along her spine, in a soothing caress that made her skin tingle. Ignoring the pleasant soreness of her limbs, she tightened her grip on him, cuddling in the warmth of his flushed skin. Vegeta stopped instantly his ministrations, his hand dropping on the bed as if struck by a lightning.

Well, it was good until it lasted.

“No more escape attempts? I’m shocked,” she giggled, snuggling closer still, but feeling him shift somehow uncomfortably.

His stiff silence wasn’t promising at all, and made her lift her head sleepily to better study the prince’s face. Vegeta’s trademark scowl was once again on its place, brows furrowed and jaw set. “What is it, Vegeta?” she sighed, kneading his shoulders and arms with the pads of her fingers to ease his tension. The prince stopped, his big hand trapping her own when it reached the tattoo over his heart.

He stared at her, but his dark eyes betrayed an inner turmoil, as if he was still trying to convince himself of what was about to say.

“This means nothing, our deal is still valid,” he whispered with his husky voice that made her shiver, despite the meaning of his words. Oh, the fake marriage deal. The one she was so adamant about, to grant her independence.

After some seconds of silence, Bulma burst into laughter: she was shaking so hard she had to lean her forehead on his chest in order to calm down, ignoring his outraged expression and snorts.

Of course, it meant nothing. It was sex. Wonderful, long sought, vertiginous sex. She had learnt to trust the prince, she respected the man he was and yes, maybe she was more than a little fond of him. But nothing more.

She desired him. A lot. At the point of madness, given the stunt she had pulled the last night to get in his bed. Not that Bulma regretted it, oh no. She would do it all over again, just to have the chance to kiss him senseless once more, rubbing herself against him for hours until her skin was hot and raw, and never leave this bed that smelled of sex and sweat and _him_. But love? It was nothing of the sort.

As the prelude of a growl rumbled in his chest, Bulma left an apologetic trail of kisses on his collarbone, along his neck, on the tattoo over his heart; she kissed the expanse of skin stretching from his chest to his side, the scar under the third rib, and lower, lower, her laughter and giggles turning in a mischievous grin, while his fingers sunk once again in her hair.

She traced the tattoos under his navel with her tongue, blowing gently over the wet lines on his skin, feeling his body answer at her touches with a shiver.

“Are you afraid to fall in love with me?” she asked at the last symbol imprinted on his skin, where the ink faded into a darker trail of hair. His erection twitched, furrowed between her breasts.

“I’m not afraid of anything,” Vegeta answered, but his voice quivered dangerously when she licked the underside of his cock, from the base to the weeping tip, feeling the vein there pulse under her tongue. Her eyes never left his own as her lips closed on the tip and slid down, watching Vegeta’s head sink back among the cushions, one arm flung over his face in the vain attempt to stifle a groan.

Bulma licked and stroked him, watching the corded tendons of his neck shake and vibrate with throaty sounds of pleasure. When she felt his cock pulsing again under her tongue, she rose, letting his shaft slide from her lips to leave a wet trail along her throat, between her breasts, on her belly, a line of life that ran through her whole being, as she crawled forward and climbed the hard planes of his body. She sat up, straddling him and enjoying the sight of her prince’s flushed face and heaving chest.

He was beautiful, she thought, as her hand smoothed the groves and dimples of his dark skin, scarred planes and hard rock muscles glistening with a veil of sweat, making him resemble a bronze statue, like the one her father brought home from Greece once. But even more so he was a thrilling, uncharted territory begging to be discovered and mapped and conquered. His scars stood out like a warning in the universal language of blood and danger, defying her to begin and survive the journey, but she was careless and had always loved adventures.

Bulma licked her lips, tasting him and a bit of herself on them, like a deadly tiger would just before swallowing her prey.

“Don’t worry, I’m not trying to trap you in a real marriage. It’s just sex,” she cooed grinding her cunt against him, surprised by how wet she was, how much she wanted this, him. Eyes fluttering close, Bulma leant on his chest to support herself, the wet friction so delicious she could go on for ages. “I just want to make you feel good...” she panted.

Vegeta’s hands rose to squeeze her rump, grabbing her hips to guide her movements, until his cock found and stretched her entrance, making her own head loll back and forth, boneless.

“Nh. And you’re not getting anything in return, are you?” he panted, grinning darkly. “Because you’re so generous…”

Bulma smiled: seeing him so unusually carefree, joking around as if their world ended on the borders of that bed, was the best gift she could ask for. She reached for his hand, bringing it up to her mouth to suck on his fingers one by one, eliciting new groans and a muttered curse from the prince under her.

“I must admit, it has its perks…” she added, pressing his wet fingers down, on her clit, where he skillfully rolled the nub of flesh between his thumb and forefinger, rocking his hips violently as a reprimand. It was her time to gasp and wail, curling over and digging her nails on his abdomen, while a curtain of hair fell over her face.

Suddenly his other hand was on her cheek, gentle fingers tucking the blue strands away and behind her ear. The gesture was so delicate and intimate she lost her rhythm for a moment, disoriented.

“You’re a vulgar woman…” he murmured, harsh words sliding down her spine, caressing her skin like thick velvet, and pooling between her legs, where his fingers continued doing their magic, shaking her core and her world.

He really was a man of contradictions, a being made of rough manners as well as sudden and tender gestures, as if he had yet to master the right balance between the two. But that contradiction, the unpredictable and precarious sway between good and evil, was the most alluring of his traits.

“And what are you, my _saiyyan_?” she grinned, riding him with more force, as if she could hunt down and tame the wild part of him with the frantic grind of her hips. “A bad man?”

He dragged his palm down her throat and between her breasts, rough fingers kneading her nipple while his hips rolled and undulated like a tidal wave, making her throw her head back in the throe of ecstasy. Then, while the desperate tension she knew so well coiled and throbbed low in her belly, the prince sunk his hand in her hair, pulling her down, until their forehead touched and the air was hot and heavy with their ragged breaths.

“I _am_ a bad man...” he purred, his voice serious, rumbling with the echo of a growl, and Bulma was suddenly aware she wasn’t the hunter, but the prey of a ferocious creature, that was already dragging his fangs down her throat, licking and tasting her skin in anticipation.

His eyes smoldered with the blackest black, so near and alive, dark with the hunger of a deadly predator, but she’d gladly let him eat her whole just to feel the abrasive caress of his sinful hand on her body again, his cock pulsing deep inside her, and the unfaltering focus of his gaze devouring her soul. Lost in the dark waters of the prince’s eyes, she muffled her cries of release in the heat of his mouth, biting his lower lip until she felt the coppery taste of blood.

Her body surrendered, tensing one last time and going limp, shuddering with the aftershock of her orgasm. Bulma abandoned her head on his chest, where she could feel his pleasure reverberate as he reached his own peak with a growl. She laid there, sweat cooling on her skin as she dozed off, hypnotized by the movement of the tattoo over his heart, that followed the rising and fall of his heaving chest. The dark lines of the Ozaru insignia she already knew so well swayed under her eyes, the new angle showing her a set of symbols hidden among the decorations that had escaped her previous study.

Curiosity woke her up, enough to spur her into action and rise reluctantly from their cocoon of limbs and sheets. Vegeta laid with his eyes closed, his features slack and relaxed for once. She smiled, seeing his brow twitch as her finger grazed the Ozaru tattoo. Now that her eyes were more accustomed to the ancient Sayan writing system, she could definitely make out symbols and ciphers from the intricate design of the tattoo over his heart. How could she ever have missed it?

“What are you doing?” Vegeta asked, without even bothering to open an eye.

Not ready to admit her oversight, she swiftly made up an excuse.

“I’ve never really appreciated this one tattoo. It’s beautiful,” she said, not entirely lying. “Does it have a particular meaning behind it?”

The prince shrugged, stretching out and letting his hand skim leisurely along her thigh in the process. Bulma suppressed a shiver, her rational mind scolding her for answering so easily to his mischievous touches.

“It’s an ancient crest, if there ever was a meaning behind it, it’s long since forgotten,” Vegeta answered at last, getting up. “I’m starving.”

Bulma smiled, wrapping the blanket around her body. “Me too. Could you get something to eat, while I check the course of the next sphere?”

The prince only grunted, already putting his pants on and leaving their intimate shelter on wobbly legs. Smiling to herself, she quickly gathered her hair in a messy bun, ready to decipher the new secret of her lost prince.

 

*

 

The sun was scorching, a blazing circle that seemed glued to the highest spot in the sky, messing with his patience. They were travelling towards a place called Namaq, a forgotten and mysterious forest sprouted from nowhere in the middle of the desert, that the woman had pointed on her map as the location of the next sphere. It annoyed him to no end that he didn’t know their destination, a place so mysterious that wasn’t reported in any map or book. Even during his campaigns with the Imperial Army he had never heard of that foreign name. How could a place like that exist without him knowing?

He huffed, beads of sweat rolling down his spine and stirring up his already flaming irritation.

But nothing was more annoying than the blatant glances and unspoken question that Raditz constantly threw at him, riding before him. Not once he had left him alone, since his reappearance among his people in the camp, after Ghermez. He was tired of his smirks and lewd jokes, made just to pry and meddle in his affair with the woman.

Speaking of the woman...

She was riding beside him, glowing and occasionally humming to herself, apparently oblivious of the sly curiosity of their travelling companion. She was too excited to reach their destination, to even care about what was happening around her.

“Tell me more about this Namaq place,” he asked her, looking for a way to escape Raditz’s smirks and silly jokes.

Bulma’s eyes shined, and he could feel her smile, even if it was hidden by the turban.

“It was an ancient kingdom, created by monks that practiced alchemy and the worship of the spirits of nature. Legends say that those spirits granted them a rich environment and a green land, even in the middle of the desert. But I believe the reason behind that is the extremely peculiar chemical composition of the soil…”

Gods, maybe Raditz’s banter wasn’t so bad, after all…

“What happened to them?” he cut short.

“Well, nobody really knows. One day all the monks simply disappeared. The people started leaving, while the kingdom and the temples fell to ruin, so most of the Namaqians culture and studies was lost. But…”

She got closer, tugging down the strip of fabric that covered half of her face, to whisper in his ear. The prince tried to pay attention to her words, but her scent and the feather-like touch of her nose on his cheek awoke a different kind of thoughts than ancient history.

“I have reason to believe the Namaqians played a key role in the creation of the Dragon Spheres. This is why this journey is so important: maybe we’ll get to understand better the payment you’ll have to make, when you’ll conquer the power of Ozaru…”

The way she spoke of his ascension, as if his success was certain, already on the horizon, ignited something in his bones, a different kind of anticipation that drove him several kinds of wild.

Basking in her secretive smile, Vegeta couldn’t stop his mind from recalling the moment of their departure from the Sayan camp. He had had her again, that same morning, while she finished checking the new course of their expedition, the picture of that rushed encounter forever singed in his brain: Bulma, naked and sweated under him, sprawled on the carpets among her scattered notes; the parchments crackling and shriveling between her clenched fingers and the ink seeping through her slick skin, staining her back, so she was tattooed too, even if not permanently.

Maybe, he thought, already planning their next stop, she would let him lick and kiss those signs away from her skin later, under the cover of the night. His gaze drifted on its own to her figure: she was watching him too, the little wrinkles around her eyes betraying her hidden smile as if she knew what he was thinking. He couldn’t help but smirk back.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once released the Smut Muse is unstoppable. So I couldn’t resist and had to drag the smut a little bit more… Mostly to give those two idiots some extra time to fall for each other without even realizing it, before harsher times will come. *evil laughter*
> 
> The next chapter will be a reference to the Namek arc: I wanted to include it in the picture as well, because it was such a beautiful and poignant saga... and it will reveal some big news for our duo. 
> 
> As always, I can’t be more grateful for all your comments and feedbacks: they make my day, really. And I can’t wait to see what RutBisbe has in store with her beautiful art. I saw a sneak peek of her next fanart and I’m literally squealing. *___*


	13. A garden in the desert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s a place where we can be ourselves and forget the world. It’s a garden in the middle of the desert: it blooms every time you smile.
> 
> A little bit of NSFW material in the first part, in case you’d like to skip it.  
> If not, enjoy. :)
> 
> Sountrack: “Nainowale ne” by Sanjay Leela Bhansali, from the movie “Padmaavat”; “In the garden of souls” by Vas

 

 

_In a world where all is borrowed,_

_And time like elusive dust_

_seems to just slip through our fingers,_

_All we really have are these precious moments_

_where we can make fertile the soil_

_In the garden of our hearts,_

_that love may make its home_

_and here the mortal seed may flourish._

 

(“In the garden of souls”, Vas)

  


 

The mist was thicker with each step they took. It had begun nearly 7 miles from their destination: at first it was an inconsistent cloud of steam that danced on the dunes, but as the group advanced it had become more and more similar to an impenetrable wall of fog. The desert too, was changing: in the last few days the nothingness of the dunes had given more and more space to subtle forms of life, little sprouts populated by bugs and lizards, growing gradually into thick bushes and full-grown trees. When Vegeta finally signaled his companions to stop, a real forest had suddenly grown before their eyes. It was thick and impenetrable, as if the plants and the trees were closing on themselves to protect the core of that mysterious place. The prince eyed warily the impervious tangle of vines that dangled from the branches, dismounting from his horse, at last.

“We’ll continue by foot. The animals won’t go in there without struggles,” he reasoned, waiting for Bulma and Raditz, still dazed and dumbfounded from the view, to follow him. “Take only the essential, leave the rest. We’ll walk a lot.”

As the group entered the forest, a new kind of silence swallowed them.

The horses’ neighing were soon muffled by the vegetation, while the mangrove jungle closed on their heads and painted the world with shades of blue and green, so deep that even the sun couldn’t seep through the mass of leaves and branches.

The Sayans muscled in using their swords to clear the way, proceeding slowly into the increasing darkness, where the acid smell of plant sap and rotten leaves was stronger. Bulma was struggling, battling with thorns and twigs that caught and tore her tunic at every step, so the prince had to stop in his tracks more than once to free her dress form the grabby vegetation.

Then, when it seemed like the choking embrace of the vines was about to swallow them whole, the trees suddenly opened up to a small clearing. The sound of flowing water led the group to a small river, crowned by a waterfall that erupted from the flank of a rocky hill.

Vegeta remained silent: he had never seen so much water, even during his campaigns with the Imperial Army or his frequent trips to the Emperor’s gardens. And judging by the open mouths of his traveling companions, he wasn’t alone in his bewilderment.

Bulma was speechless - an unusual occurrence - lips parted in awe and eyes wide open. Her aquamarine irises glowed with the crystal reflection of the water, sprays and drops sparkling like diamonds on her skin. Vegeta didn’t realize he was staring, the beauty of the falling landscape nearly forgotten in front of her own bewilderment, until a thunder made the entire group jump.

“What the-...”

He felt Bulma gasp beside him, lips curved in a stunned smile: “It’s… raining!”

Droplets of water fell over the Sayans, drenching their clothes and turbans in seconds.

Raditz tore away the fabric still protecting his head, laughing and shaking his wet mane like a dog. Vegeta got rid of the cape as well, letting the rain wash away the fatigue and the sand that clung to his limbs. He heard Bulma laugh - a silvery sound that tickled his ears - and turned.

She too had gotten rid of the turban, as well as any layer of clothes that was in her way, until all that she wore was her flimsy tunic. Already drenched by the water and nearly transparent, the dress clung to her body like a second skin. She had freed her hair, another blue cascade that flowed unrestrained from her shoulders along her spine, and she stood there, eyes closed and face tilted towards the sky, drinking the drops of water that pooled between her parted lips and in the curve of her smile. She stood in the middle of the storm like a goddess and Vegeta fought the sudden need to kneel in front of her.

When she opened her eyes on him - beads of water shining like stars, trapped between her lashes - the prince swallowed, struggling to breathe, his mouth dry as the desert while his chest swelled like a river in flood.

“Raditz,” he rasped, eyes never leaving her own quizzical stare. “Stop dawdling and go find a shelter for the night.”

He saw the Sayan nod and leave, out of the corner of his eye; his focus was on her, only her.

The prince closed the distance between them in two strides, rain roaring in his ears, or maybe it was his mad heart, leaping from his chest and drowning in her unfaltering gaze. When he grabbed her wrist and pulled, their body crashed like two ships in a tornado, the pull and shove of the water sinking every resistance, drawing an inevitable course for them.

The woman gasped, as Vegeta dragged them to the nearest tree, pinning her to the trunk and capturing her incredulous smile with his lips; his hands fumbled and slipped on the wet fabric of her tunic until they found the treasure of her warm skin. She tasted like the sea, salty and crisp, charged with ozone and electricity, while her arms wrapped desperately around him like seaweeds. He slid down, raising her tunic while he tasted the pale skin of her neck, and drank the water trapped in the dimple of her collarbone, proceeding lower and lower. His mouth latched itself on her now exposed nipple, hard and jutting under his tongue, following the rivulets of water that ran between her breasts, heading south, leading the way.  

He meticulously licked and drank every drop of water from her body, ignoring her faint pleads until his tongue reached her center and her squirms became moans, and she was reduced to a whimpering mess, sighing his name over and over again like a prayer, and he was delirious, drunk of water and her taste.

 

*

 

Bulma squirmed again, clenching the damp fabric of her raised tunic, in the effort to hold back another wave of pleasure. Her legs were trembling so much she would have fell if it wasn’t for the steady trunk she was pressed against, and the firm grip of the prince, currently kneeling between her legs.

“Shh…” Vegeta whispered raising his head, his breath tickling the sensitive nub of nerves on the apex of her thigh and making her shiver. “You’re too loud.”

She tightened her grip on his hair, pulling slightly, and he sucked on her feverish skin, making her gasp again. His hand rose, fingers pressing on her lips to silence her. When she stared down ah him, only half annoyed, she found a mischievous glint in his eyes. _Bastard._

Bulma retaliated by sucking at his fingers, tongue darting out to sensually lick the drops of rain from them, but when he groaned, sinking his face between her legs even more, the rumble spread through her like a different kind of thunder. She felt the muscles in his shoulder move and peeked down, only to find the prince reaching between his legs to free his erection and stroke himself in earnest, with eyes closed in abandon. The image was so enthralling she couldn't take it anymore and she came right there, her strangled cry muffled by the fingers still in her mouth. She heard Vegeta follow her soon after, spilling himself on the ground with a groan, and biting softly her inner thigh to refrain his own sounds of pleasure.

As they both drifted down from the height of their orgasm, panting and trembling, Raditz’s voice pierced the calming sound of the falling rain and made her jump.

“Vegeta! Where are you?” said the other Sayan, dangerously near to their hiding place.

The prince didn’t answer, but rose to his feet, pressing his body to her own and crashing his lips on hers, muffling her gasp of surprise. The kiss - a sudden storm that swept her off her feet and made the world spin madly - ended as soon as it started. When she opened her eyes, the prince signaled her to remain silent, with a finger in front of his bruised lips. Bulma felt her heart skip a beat: a new light danced in his eyes, making them shine like the first stars of the evening, as he licked his lips playfully, mirth drawing new and foreign wrinkles of joy at the corners of his eyes. But it was the smile - _his_ smile - that made her heart leap and swell, tears tickling behind her eyes. The awe and reverence she felt when she had successfully found the first Sphere paled in comparison with the surge of emotions that were flooding her being. 

She couldn’t appreciate the sight much longer, because the prince abruptly tore himself from her, and she was left there, dizzy and disoriented like a shipwreck survivor after a storm.

“Don’t shout, you idiot, I’m here!” she heard Vegeta answer with a growl.

“Sorry, I thought… I found a shelter. It’s over there, behind those rocks. Where’s Bulma?”

“She’s somewhere around here, searching for dry wood for the bonfire. Lead the way, I’ll find her and follow your trail.”

When she heard Raditz walk away, Bulma’s legs finally gave out, and she slid down the trunk, trembling with laughter and awe. What the hell had just happened? Vegeta was suddenly in front of her, offering her his hand as support, as she tried to slow down her ragged breath and the furious beating of her heart.

“He’s gone,” the prince said, eyeing her disheveled state with his arrogant smirk already plastered on his face. “And you’re a mess”.

Bulma snorted, failing to sound outraged because of the spreading grin on her face.

“Don’t flatter yourself, you just took me by surprise. Besides, couldn’t it wait? Raditz nearly caught us...”

She took his hand, and Vegeta dragged her up with a sharp tug, making her stumble on her own feet.

“Whoa, easy!” she giggled, leaning on the prince’s chest for support. Laughter died in her throat, as Vegeta smoothed her tousled hair with his fingers, plucking leaves and twigs from her locks in the meantime.  

“It couldn’t wait,” he confessed, eyes focusing on anything but her face, to finally settle on their still joined hands. “Come on,” the prince finally said, putting some space between them. “The idiot found a cave to pass the night.”

 

*

 

The cave was spacious enough to be the shelter of 20 peoples. Its smooth walls had been clearly carved and molded by water during the centuries. Or at least that was the explanation of the woman, that was eyeing every pebble with barely contained excitement. As soon as Raditz had set up the fire for the night, she lightened a branch, using it as a torch, and headed towards the deepest part of the cave.

“Let’s go exploring,” she grinned at Vegeta, winking.

The prince blushed, doing his best to ignore Raditz’s sly grin behind him.

“Explore, huh? That’s how you call it nowadays?” the other Sayan added, rising his eyebrows suggestively, and making Vegeta’s blood boil from anger and embarrassment.

“Shut up Raditz,” he growled, following the light of Bulma’s torch, already disappearing in the darkness, “and prepare something to eat. I’m starving.”

His cousin’s boom of laughter echoed between the walls of the cave: “But I thought you had already ‘eaten’!”

The prince ignored him once again, too busy trying not to lose that havoc of a woman that was trotting before him, totally unaware of Raditz’s comments or the risks of that exploration. The cave continued in a series of tunnels, he made sure to sign with his knife, not to lose the way. The air was breathable, so there should be an opening somewhere, Vegeta reasoned. Droplets of water dripped from the walls of the tunnel, nearly deafening in the dark silence of the cave.

Bulma suddenly stopped on her track, making Vegeta stumble and hold her close, instinctively.

“Oh my Gods…” she whispered.

“What’s happening?” he asked, his hand already on the hilt of his sword.

“Look at that!”

She was pointing to a set of inscriptions, carved on the rocky walls of the tunnel. It was a circle, filled with symbols and geometrical lines, accompanied by a series of ciphers, written on one side of the drawing. As the woman tilted the torch to one side, the feeble light revealed another circle, on the left, then another one. Vegeta took the torch from Bulma’s hand, to advance in the darkness: the entire wall of the tunnel was filled with similar circles and inscriptions.

“This… this is incredible!” Bulma nearly screamed, dragging the prince with her to better inspect the inscriptions. “I have to retrieve my notes, and transcribe everything. Gods, they’re so many…”

“What’s this… stuff?” Vegeta asked, barely infected by her enthusiasm.

“They’re alchemical circles!” Bulma explained, tracing with a trembling finger the first inscription. “An alchemical circle it’s like a formula,” she further explained, in front of his quizzical look, “that combines different elements to ignite an alchemical reaction. Like the one we need to unlock the power of the spheres…”

At the mention of the Dragon Spheres, Vegeta felt his interest spike up.

He glanced at the other circles carved on the walls: each one was different from the other, an infinite combination of signs, symbols and ciphers.

“Do you know which one to use?” he asked Bulma.

“I have an idea I’m working on,” Bulma said, eyes glued on the first circle, as if she could imprint it on her retinas. “But it would be great to find the circle we need in here. And judging by those inscriptions, we are near….”

A sound at the other side of the tunnel, made them both jump.

Vegeta pulled roughly the woman behind him, drawing his sword. They waited, but only the dripping of the water and their breaths punctuated the silence of the cave.

“Maybe… maybe it was only the wind…” Bulma whispered, peeking from behind his shoulder and squeezing his arm nervously.

The prince squinted, eyes focused in the depth of the darkness, waiting.

After another moment of silence, something moved in front of them.

“It isn’t the wind,” Vegeta growled, jumping ahead without waiting for her light to show the way. The blade collided with the rocky wall, but he kicked something with his food. The prince reached down blindly, grabbing the first thing he felt under his hand.

It was soft and it moved. An animal? A sudden cry confirmed him it was a human being, that wriggled under his unyielding grip.

“Woman, the light!” he roared, pointing the blade to the still moving being under him. The stranger stopped its struggles, probably feeling the pointy side of Vegeta’s sword on his skin.

When Bulma arrived with the torch, lightning the entire tunnel, the prince realized that the one trapped in his grip was a child.

He heard Bulma gasp behind him, then the woman pulled his arm violently.

“Gods, Vegeta! It’s only a child, let him go!”

“I don’t care: he was lurking in the darkness, probably waiting for the right moment to attack us. I’m not taking the risk…”

The woman scoffed, and bent at the child’s side.

“Please, you were the one attacking him! Look, he’s so scared he’s trembling! Poor thing...”

Vegeta observed his prey: the child was indeed shaking, his eyes already full of tears that threatened to spill at any moment, even if the little one was bravely trying not to cry. For the briefest moment, Vegeta saw himself in the child gripping desperately his wrist: a little and helpless thing writhing in between the claws of a monster, calling for his mother. But there was no one there to help him. Like there had been no one to save the little prince from his destiny.

“Vegeta!”

The sound of Bulma’s voice brought him back from his reverie, and the prince let the child go. He clearly wasn’t a threat, too little and thin to be part of the Imperial Army. He was maybe 6 years old, not older than 7, and his clothes were foreign, a green tunic, fastened at his waist with a belt made of intertwined leaves. His head was shaved, and decorated with green lines and designs that spread like vines along his cranium and neck. As the woman crouched and reached for his face, the child shrinked back.

“Don’t be afraid… do you understand me?” Bulma said, but the child didn’t answer, his eyes still darting from the woman to Vegeta in fear. The prince was about to use his sword to make him talk, when Bulma spoke again.

“ _Mi vakhets’ek’_ _..._ _Inch’ e k’vo anuny_?”

Both Vegeta and the child looked at her, equally shocked, but before the prince could ask what language was she speaking, the little prisoner answered.

“ _Im anuny Dende e_ …”

The woman smiled and said something else to him, her name standing out from that foreign words. When she turned, her eyes were triumphant: “His name is Dende. He’s a Namaqian.”

 

*

Dende was walking beside her, clinging to her dress and with his little fingers entangled with her own, but he was visibly less tense and was starting to open up a little, answering her many questions that she promptly translated to the prince. He was indeed 6 years old, a Namaqian as few others that lived in the forest, under the guide of the High Priest and protected from the outside world. When Bulma asked him why were they hiding, a shadow darkened the child’s eyes. She let the topic drop, telling him jokes and riddles to make Dende smile again, task in which she succeeded.  

The prince, on the other hand, was still tense and wary.

“How did you manage to learn a dead language?” he asked, trying not to sound too impressed by the fluency with which she talked to the little Namaqian.

“I told you: I studied a lot of ancient text about the Namaqians and their culture. All that I know, I learned from their rare literature. And this little man here is helping me expand my vocabulary...” she added, patting Dende’s head with tenderness.

They were approaching the main cave, where Raditz were still waiting, the feeble light of the fire already visible at the end of the tunnel.

“You didn’t ask him the most important question,” added Vegeta. “What was the child doing in that cave?”

She translated the question to Dende, but the little Namaqian lowered his gaze and shook his head.

The tell-tale growl behind her, told Bulma Vegeta was about to lose his already thin patience.

“Listen, you little-...”, he roared.

“Oh stop it, Vegeta!” she admonished him. “He’s a little boy, he’s scared and clearly uncomfortable. There’s no need to-...”

Bulma couldn’t finish the sentence because the prince was suddenly in front of her, sword drawn and ready for the fight, forming a human barrier between her and a pair of spears pointed at them.

Bulma held Dende tight, peeking from behind the prince’s shoulder: they were surrounded by strange men, their face covered by dark green cloaks and capes that brushed the floor. She could see Raditz too, knelt on the ground and surrounded by another set of spears. He was holding his arm gingerly, so he must have tried to fight the group of warriors on his own. Bulma felt a pang of guilt: if they had been together maybe he wouldn’t have been hurt or imprisoned.

“Vegeta! I’m sorry..." the Sayan said, seeing them emerge from the tunnels. “Those morons popped out of nowhere, they got me surrounded in seconds.”

She saw the prince’s back tense even more, his shoulder blades twitching under her hand as he shifted his position. Then Vegeta turned abruptly and tore the little boy from her arms to point his sword at his throat.

“Vegeta, what in the world-”

“Tell them to leave Raditz go, or I’ll kill the child,” he interrupted her.

Bulma was petrified: Vegeta would never kill a harmless boy, wouldn’t he? She was still debating with herself what to do, when the warriors surrounding them took a step back, having interpreted the prince’s intention. They looked at each other warily, but refused to lower their spears nor free Raditz. Suddenly, a deep voice echoed in the cave.

“We don’t make deals with Frieza’s Demon.”

The group of Namaqians in front of them opened to let a warrior pass. He was tall, his head, face and arms covered with so many arabesques and patterns his skin seemed almost green in the dim light of the torches. He stood in front of Vegeta, with a sword in one hand and a trident in the other, waiting menacingly. The prince snorted and Bulma held her breath, but the sick sound of a slashed throat never came.

“Then we should let our weapons talk for us,” Vegeta growled. With that, he pushed the boy back, making him land once more in Bulma’s arms, and launched himself towards the Namaqian warrior.

Bulma held Dende tight, watching in horror the impaired battle in front of her. Even Raditz, hurt as he was, had found a way to break the circle of spears trapping him, and was engaging his opponents with a roar. But it was useless: the Sayans were outnumbered.

Managing to keep at bay the group of Namaqians engaging him, Vegeta screamed at her to run.

Bulma turned to look into the darkness behind her. With Dende with her she could easily find a way out from those tunnels. But she couldn’t leave her two friends there to certain death. A clashing sound made her turn again, in time to see Vegeta’s sword fall away from his hand. Spears were once again pointed at his throat while the Namaqian warrior from before stood over him, a feral grin stretching on his tattooed face. “I’ll send you demon back in hell for your sins!” the stranger roared, attacking once again the disarmed prince under her terrified gaze.

Bulma closed her eyes, a scream tearing her chest.

“ _Darets’nel_!”

As soon as the word had left her lips, time seemed to stop in the cave. The Namaqians paused, watching her with eyes wide open. The taller warrior, probably their commander, broke the spell they were under, ordering his men to block and tie down the two Sayans. Then he focused his gaze on her.

Bulma froze, struck on the spot by those harsh eyes that had the power to pry her heart open. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Vegeta struggle in his restraints.

"Goddammit woman! Run!" he roared, his voice cracking while telling her to get away.

No, Bulma decided, standing up: she would not run. She had the power to save them all, and it was her duty as a Sayan princess to try until her last breath. She stood, hands balled into fists and spine straight, until the Namaqian warrior was in front of her.

“Woman, how do you know our sacred language?”

She was about to speak, when Dende moved and put himself in front of her, as to protect his new friend. Despite his brave act, Bulma could feel him shake, his little fingers clenching and unclenching the hem of her dress.

“Nan-Piqqhalo…” he said with trembling voice, proceeding to tell the older Namaqian the circumstances of their encounter.

Bulma understood only half of it, the child’s speech too fast for her limited understanding of the language. Her eyes held the Namaqian’s gaze, knowing their lives depended solely on her and a child’s plead.

The warrior, whose name she understood was Piqqhalo, pierced her with another stare, studying her thoroughly: “You’re not a Sayan.”

“You're wrong”, she answered, a strange surge pride curling around her ribcage like an armor. "I'm a Sayan princess."

Piqqhalo snorted, his lips twisted in a mean smirk. 

"A princess of nothing, you mean. A cursed race that gave birth to demons like him," he sneered, nodding towards Vegeta. "Yes, I know very well who you travel with," the Namaqian added, in front of her poorly hidden surprise.  

He closed the distance and towered over her, whispering menacingly: “Frieza’s dogs are not welcomed here. You will not touch another leaf of Namaq with your filthy hands…”

Bulma interrupted him, her voice raising at the implied insult. 

“We are not Frieza’s men!” she seethed, grinding her teeth in the effort to hold back a wave of sudden rage. “Bring me to your High Priest, I will speak only to him.”

Piqqhalo snorted and turned his head to spit in the dirt, towards the Sayans.

“Why should I? I could kill you all, and be free of this nonsense… That’s what happens to trespassers.”

A drop of sweat ran down her spine, scorching hot on her icy skin. But she straightened her spine once more, meeting and holding Piqqhalo’s stare.

“If you kill us, you’ll never figure out how we managed to find this place. And that’s a risk you can’t take…”

The Namaqian sneered, his bared teeth white and sharp against the dark hue of his skin. Time stretched out while he considered her words, then he grabbed her arm, ignoring Dende’s whimpers and Vegeta’s warning growls. The warrior dragged her towards the entrance of the cave, promptly followed by his men and their prisoners. “Come,” he rumbled. “Don’t try anything funny, or I’ll kill you and your _friends_ on the spot.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh this chapter was a bitch. The first part went smoothly (thanks again, Smut Muse) then the writer’s block hit me square in the face. Sorry for the delay, I hope to overcome this temporary dead-end I’m struggling with, and be back with another chapter soon.  
> Ps. The Namaqian language is inspired by Armenian and "Darets'nel" means "stop"


	14. A stranger's heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Would you give your heart away? Would you become a Demon, once again?
> 
> Sountrack: “In the garden of Armida” by Irfan, “Minara” by Niyaz, “Forty one ways” by Azam Ali

 

 

_I am a stranger in this world,_

_And this loneliness is so cruel._ _  
_ _A magic world with devils I’ve never seen._

 _I am a stranger in this world,_  
_and nobody knows_ _  
the language of myself._

 

(“Stranger”, by Emel Mathlouthi)

 

 

How the namaqians managed to orient themselves in the tangle of trees and thick branches, escaped her comprehension. They had been walking in the heart of the forest following an invisible trail Piqqhalo seemed to know by Heart, Bulma stumbling with every step while Vegeta and Raditz were dragged around with rope binding their hands and arms behind their backs. After maybe half an hour - it was impossible to tell the time, the evening sky obscured by the impenetrable roof of trees - the reluctant group reached another rocky wall, covered by musk and vines. Piqqhalo swept aside the leaves as if they were a curtain, revealing the entrance of another cave; he pushed Bulma inside, promptly followed by the others warriors and prisoners. The tunnels were bigger than the ones she had explored in the other shelter, and the decorated walls were lit by several torches hanging from the roof. Bulma couldn’t hide her awe at the sight of the fine carving and pictograms that filled the smooth walls around them, but she didn’t have the time to proper examine them. After a few meters the tunnel opened to a bigger room: it was a natural dome, its walls patiently carved by waters along the centuries, maybe even millennia. Stalactites sprouted from the sides of the room, bent like arches of a natural temple, and the glass-like roof reflected the light of a crystal pond, right at the center of the dome. Bulma let Piqqhalo drag her around, too amazed by the natural architecture to care about his rough manners. When the warrior stopped in front of an altar - a marble block decorated with incense, flowers and offers, she squinted in the dim light.

The High Priest sat cross-legged on a skimpy throne made of rocks, his poise seraphic and intimidating at the same time. His eyes were closed, while leaves and branches had wound themselves around his still body like a cape: if it wasn’t for the even rising and fall of his rib cage, Bulma would have mistaken him for a statue carved in stone and ancient wood.

Piqqhalo knelt, dragging her down with a sharp tug at her arm. Behind them, Bulma heard Vegeta and Raditz grunt.

“Father Saiqhor,” the warrior whispered reverently, in his mother tongue, “these Sayans were caught in the Qotsan cave. They fought us, they took Dende as a hostage. And this woman…”

“I can speak for myself, thank you,” she added sharply in Namaqians, trying to break free from Piqqhalo’s grip.

“You’ll speak when I’ll see fit, woman!”

“If you think you can manhandle me like a-”

“Enough.”

The High Priest’s voice was soft like the breeze whistling through rocks and branches, but like the wind itself, it let sense an hidden power, a force able to blow anything and anyone away, if needed.

Bulma bowed her head and took a deep breath.

“I apologize, your Holiness. But we mean no harm to you or your people, nor we threatened Dende,” she said, speaking in namaqians once more. “We found him in the inner part of the cave while we were exploring it, and he came with us willingly, when your men attacked us. We were merely defending ourselves.”

“Lies!” Piqqhalo sneered, pointing towards Vegeta. “She travels with none other than Frieza’s Djinn!”

The Priest shut him up with a slow gesture of the hand. The shushing of the leaves on his wrinkled skin was deafening in the sudden silence of the cave.

“You speak our language properly, my Lady. I’m impressed,” the old man said, with his slow cadence that reminded Bulma of a lullaby sung by Mother Nature herself. “But even if I can see you’re not a Sayan, I fear Piqqhalo’s concern is justified. We are living in secrecy for a reason. So I have to ask you: who are you, how did you managed to find our home, and what brought you and your unusual companions here?”

Bulma looked around nervously. Her eyes met briefly Vegeta’s one, marveling at his silence. His stern expression was unreadable, his gaze steady on her own. He knew their fate depended solely on her answer and maybe, Bulma thought, he was trusting her with their lives. She couldn’t screw this up.

“I’m Bulma, princess of Capsalis and an alchemist myself. I’ve been studying your culture and text for years. You had managed to hide this place from the world, but not everything the Namaqians achieved was lost. Secrets can’t be kept forever…”

Bulma took a step forward, searching for the eyes of the High Priest. She needed him to see, to understand they were on the same side. But the old Namaqian’s eyes remained closed, he seemed petrified once again.

“It’s true,” she confessed, “Vegeta had served under the Imperial Army, but not willingly. Now he’s a free man and the heir of a tribe haunted by the Emperor: he hates Frieza maybe more than everyone in this room. We are looking for a way to defeat the Emperor, to end his reign of fear and cruelty. But in order to do so, we need a great power, something Frieza himself wants and fears at the same time...”

Bulma could feel Vegeta’s dark eyes on her back, her skin prickling with tension. She leaned on that presence, for comfort and courage: _trust me_.

She took another deep breath and whispered: “The Dragon Spheres.”

“This is blasphemy!” Piqqhalo roared, pushing her aside. “Do you really think we will entrust one of Frieza’s most cruel generals with our Sacred Spheres? We might as well deliver them to the Emperor!”

“Fireza is already looking for your spheres,” Bulma interrupted him. “It’s only a matter of time before he develops the knowledge to find them, as I did. Our only hope, no, the world’s only hope, is for us to find them before him, and defeat Frieza with the power of the Sayans.”

“Nonsense. Nobody can find this place…”

“Oh, really?” she felt Raditz snort, behind them. “Our sole presence here says the contrary.”

It was all that it took to make the tension burst in the room.

“I had enough of you Sayans... Bring them away!” shouted Piqqhalo to his men.

“No, wait!”

Forgetting Frieza, the Spheres and the High Priest, Bulma rushed to Vegeta’s side, while the prince struggled to break free from his restraints. She knew what would happen if they were separated, and as Piqqhalo grabbed her and yanked her away, Bulma felt a wave of panic fill her heart, the idea of not seeing the Sayan prince anymore twisting her insides painfully. She writhed and kicked with all her forces, watching with wide eyes the prince do the same, but with every passing second, the distance between them only grew. “Please, no!”

It was a child’s cry that brought silence back into the hall. Bulma felt something clutching her legs and lowered her gaze: Dende clung to her hiccuping, his face hidden among the folds of her dress. She wasn’t familiar with the most intimate Namaqian vocabulary, but even so it was clear the child was calling his mother, hot tears streaming down his chubby face. The anguish in his voice melted her heart: “Please, don’t hurt her…”

Under the eyes of the calloused warriors gathered in the cave, Bulma crouched on the floor, hugging the trembling child, trying her best to comfort him and herself. It occurred to her she hadn’t seen any Namaqian women in the cave, as the High Priest’s calming voice poured like a soothing waterfall on all of them.

“Our kingdom ceased to exist a long time ago,” he said. “Only few chosen warriors and priests are left guarding this sanctuary. Our people flee and found a home in other kingdoms and reigns. But then, when Frieza’s Army came, they suffered the consequences of their heritage. So many died during purges and invasions, like Dende’s parents.”

Bulma tightened her embrace on the child, stroking his shaved head tenderly.  

“The Sayans suffered the same fate,” she whispered. “They know what’s like to lose everything: your home, your freedom, your beloved ones. That’s why I’m here, why we’re looking for the spheres. Frieza has to be stopped.”

Tears stung her eyes: she thought of Dende and Vegeta, their sorrow, their lost childhood and uncertain future. It hurt her how much a fallen prince and an orphaned child had in common. She lifted her gaze on the old man still seated in front of her, refusing to shed her tears: “You can’t stay here doing nothing while the world crumble and other peoples die. Please, you have to help us.”

A long moment of silence passed, before the High Priest opened his eyes. They were green and alive, so in contrast with the decadent aura of his frail body. In the unnatural light of those two gems, Bulma found finally hope.

“Piqqhalo, tell your men to free the Sayans and leave us.”

“But Father, they’re our enemies…”

The High Priest smiled, and Bulma felt as if a weight had finally lifted from her chest: “I see no enemy in this room.”

 

*

 

The ropes had been harsh on his wrist. As soon as he was free Vegeta

“My sword?” he asked Piqqhalo, but the only answer he got was a snort.

“As if I’ll let you stand armed in front of our Father…”

The prince couldn’t answer back, because Bulma was instantly beside him, her eyes big and glossy with concern and bad hidden tension.

“Are you hurt?” she asked, letting her hands roam over his arms and torso. He blocked her, taking her hands between his bigger ones gently.

“I’m fine.”

She nodded, then turned towards his cousin.

“Raditz?”

“Pff... Please! It’s only a scratch,” the other Sayan snorted, dabbing his wound with his turban and tying the fabric around his shoulder for good measure.

She smiled, a trembling sigh of relief escaping her lips. She looked so sincere in her worry, the Prince had to restrain his hand from reaching out and smooth back her ruffled hair from her face. He squeezed her hand, instead, trying to express with that subtle gesture his appreciation for her nerve and courage. Her fingers remained intertwined with his own, while she addressed to the old man once again.

“Thank you, for understanding we are on the same side.”

“Don’t thank me yet, my Lady. I fear not all the answers you seek will be of your liking,” the High Priest said.

“What do you mean?” Vegeta asked, slightly irritated by the old man’s continuous riddles and half-spoken words.

“You see, your Highness, even if they were brought to this world with the best of intentions, the Sacred Spheres aren’t inherently good. They were created by our ancestors, a group of sages and alchemists that searched for a cure to a plague that was killing many of us,” Saiqhor explained.

“But soon they realized they had created something far too powerful for this world. Men are greedy, selfish and value power above anything else, even life: so they created the Dragon as a guardian, and tied every wish to a payment, so that only the ones willing to sacrifice something of their own, would be able to fulfill their dreams.”

“But that didn’t stop the craving of kings and conquerors for the Spheres,” added the old man. “Our land was targeted, and living in Namaq became too dangerous, so our ancestors decided to erase the kingdom from History, wiping it away from the charts and the memories of the world. Our people scattered around the desert, as well as the Sacred Spheres, because it was too dangerous to keep them all in one place. Only one is left here, and we are its guardians.”

Vegeta strove to stay still. His hands itched with the urge to take the damned sphere and be done with this history lesson. But he knew every information was valuable, especially if he wanted Bulma to solve the puzzle that was the legend of Ozaru.

“Even if your goal is good, the power you seek is dangerous and potentially lethal,” continued the priest. “So I have to ask: what do you intend to sacrifice to get it?”

The prince remained silent, waiting for the woman to explain her theories. But Bulma looked at him for a brief moment, before answering: in her eyes he saw uncertainty and the shadow of something resembling... fear?

“There’s a prophecy about the power of Ozaru, the first Sayan…” she uttered hastily, reciting the poem tattooed on his skin that she had managed to translate. But towards the end of the prophecy she paused, adding an unfamiliar phrase that wasn’t there before: “ _Ek dil hai, ek jaan hai… I have one heart, one life. Both of them I’m ready to sacrifice for you_.”

Vegeta’s brows furrowed: where did that last part come from? He searched her eyes for an answer, and she met his inquisitive gaze with a guilty look.  

“The Ozaru crest on your chest,” Bulma whispered. “I realized just some days ago there were symbols hidden among its traits. But I wasn’t sure about them so…”

Doubt took hold of his inside, a wary voice whispering words of betrayal in his ear. He was about to voice his concerns, but from the corner of his eye the prince saw Piqqhalo’s and the old man’s looks on them. He shut the woman up with a sharp nod, crossing his arms to keep doubts and discomfort from leak out.

The High Priest remained silent for a long minute, deep in thoughts: “I’ve never heard of this prophecy. But it seems to me, the only way for the prince to get the power of Ozaru is to offer his soul at the Dragon…”

Bulma gasped again, beside him. “You mean, he has to sacrifice himself?”

“Yes, after all you can only offer something that’s yours. But it could be dangerous, we don’t know what will happen to the prince, once the exchange is made… Without his heart, he wouldn’t be himself anymore.”

Annoyed by the way they spoke about him as if he wasn’t there, Vegeta prince cut short the philosophical discussion with an agitated grunt.

“What do you mean? I will have the power but I wouldn’t be able to control it?”

The priest nodded gravely, finally focusing his green eyes on him: “It’s possible. A man without a heart is just a demon. If you’ll lose yourself for that power, there’s a chance it will control you.”

An unstoppable power for his blackened heart and soul. Was it a price he was willing to pay? Vegeta thought about his mother, the kingdom he had been denied, Frieza’s tortures and abuses. He would do anything, he was even ready to die to have his payback. What was his useless heart worth, compared to the chance to crush Frieza’s skull under his heel? He felt Bulma fidget beside him, her voice upset: “There must be another way…”

“There is one,” added the High Priest. “There’s only one wish that doesn’t require a payment. And that’s because it’s a wish nobody has ever made: the destruction of the spheres.”

The prince jerked his head: to destroy the sole means of getting his revenge? He gritted his teeth, suddenly furious: no, they won’t take his wish away from him.

“It won’t do. The Emperor would still be alive,” he growled, ignoring Bulma’s pleading look. “I’ll do it, the sacrifice. Demon or not, Frieza will fall by my hand, and that’s final.”

Piqqhalo bitter laughter managed to rattle him like an annoying insect.

“So we’ll replace a tyrant with a demon? That’s madness!”

“I will succeed in controlling the power of Ozaru,” the prince cut short, adamant. “It’s my heritage, my destiny. I won’t fail.”

The High Priest looked at him for a long time. Vegeta held his gaze, ignoring the strange power of that unnervingly green eyes, that seemed to pass through his whole being. Finally, the old man nodded. “Your determination is admirable, your highness. I hope you’ll remain true to your word. Princess Bulma,” he added. “I’ll ask my son Nail to give you the sphere and the alchemical circle you’ll need to summon the Sacred Dragon.”

“Are you really trusting a former assassin and his gang with our treasure?” Piqqhalo shouted angrily. “He’s the Djinn: he’s already a demon, with bloody hands and no compassion whatsoever. He doesn’t even have a heart to sacrifice!”.

Vegeta was ready to answer harshly to the insult, but the High Priest lifted a hand.

“Yet, it’s not our place to judge. Only the Sacred Dragon will decide if what he has to offer is worthy,” he said.

The prince turned, ready to leave: he had had enough of the Namaqian’s insults and prattles. But a soft pressure on his forearm stopped him in his tracks: Bulma’s fingers clenched the fabric of his tunic, and he nearly drowned in the fear filling her blue eyes.

For a split moment, in the subtle trembling of her hand on him, and the way she chewed nervously her lip, he had a glimpse of what he would really lose, along with his heart and himself. But the instant passed and all it left was a bitter realization, as he shrugged her off: it wasn’t her place to decide what his wish would be. Regardless of her past kindness and his recent moments of weakness, his father was right: the woman was just the means to find the spheres and fulfill his destiny. Nothing more.

“We’re leaving as soon as we have the sphere.” he hissed to her, the sense of betrayal for her previous omissions sharpening his tongue. “Hurry up.”

Without waiting for her reply, he turned and stormed out of the blasted cave. Something in the humid and suffocating air clutched painfully at his chest, making breathing more and more difficult.

 

*

 

“Vegeta, wait!”

She ran out without thinking, leaving behind the Namaqians and the sphere. This couldn’t be happening: was he really going to turn himself voluntarily into a monster to defeat Frieza?

“You can’t sacrifice yourself. It’s too dangerous, we don’t know what will happen to you when…” she stammered, concern and anxiety making her rant.

Never slowing his pace, Vegeta looked at her over his shoulder, his gaze hard and pointed as a spear.  

“I _can’t_ ?” he seethed. “I _can_ and I _will_ do whatever I want with my wish, woman. And you have no say in this.”

Bulma groaned out loud, frustration spiking up her pulse and her steps.

“What if we destroy the spheres? Frieza wouldn’t be able to use them in the first place, and then we’ll find another way to…”

“There’s no other way,” he interrupted. “I waited long enough to have my revenge: I’ll find the last sphere and get the power that’s rightfully mine.”

“You heard the priest: you will become a demon!” she nearly screamed, grabbing him by the shoulder with fingers trembling with rage. “A powerful but cruel and brainless demon: is that what you really want-?”

“I _am_ a demon!” he roared, turning hastily, and Bulma was confronted with a feeling she hadn't experienced in a while with the prince: fear. Vegeta’s face, distorted by anger and so near to her own, was like a punch hitting her square in the gut. His gaze was dark and dangerous, eyes cold and unforgiving. His low whisper echoed in the empty cave like an omen: “And I would gladly become the Djinn again to destroy Frieza once and for all.”

Bulma trembled in front of the intensity of his oath. His eyes were black and void, every light gone and locked away from the world. Maybe he was right: there was a demon in front of her, no trace of the man she had seen just some hours before.

“The sooner you realize it, the better,” he growled one last time, before turning his back to her once again.

Bulma swallowed, holding her breath, but her hand stubbornly reached for him once again. It was blocked by a bigger one, that wrapped itself around her wrist.

“Don’t.”

Raditz stood beside her, his face unusually serious: “When he’s thinking about Frieza he is another person. There’s no room for anything else but revenge in his mind. Don’t try to stop him: he would just chew you out and drag you down with him.”

His black eyes drifted to the retreating figure of the prince, his gaze warm with affection but grave.

“I’ll go with him,” he added, pushing her gently toward the entrance of the dome. “You should go back to those green men, or they might change their blasted mind about the spheres.”

She nodded, watching Raditz follow his prince, who was already a black silhouette in the darkness of the cave. An elusive shadow she couldn’t reach. Was that the real Vegeta? The same man that had caressed her skin and kissed her with tenderness and a bit of uncertainty, under the cloak of the night?

She entered once again in the main cave, while a young Namaqian offered something that resembled to a stone to the High Priest. The old man touched it with his wrinkled hand. Under his palm the outer layer of the stone cracked and crumbled, revealing its hidden core: it was the Dragon Sphere they were looking for.

The younger Namaqian, washed the orb in the pond at the center of the room, while chanting prayers and mantras she couldn’t translate. Then he offered the sphere to Bulma.

“We entrust you with our most sacred item,” said the man, that presented himself as Nail.

She took it reverently from his hands, slightly bowing her head.

“I thank you for your help. I’ll take great care of it, I promise.” she whispered.

Nail gave her a scroll too: it was sealed with red wax, and covered in dust. “You’ll need this circle to summon the dragon, once you have all the Spheres.”

She broke the seal and unwrapped the parchment to peek inside: it was a heavily decorated circle, full of formulas and diagrams.

“Now the destiny of the world is in your hand”, said the High Priest, closing his eyes once again. “Dende will accompany you and your friends out of here. I ask you to forget the location of this place, for our and your safety as well.”

Bulma nodded, folding again the parchment and putting it in a hidden pocket of her dress, along with the sphere. “I will, I promise.”

“May the blessing of our Gods and ancestors be with you.”

She bowed solemnly and turned to leave, but Piqqhalo blocked her way, his eyes reduced to slits, charged with mistrust.

“I’ll hold you responsible for him,” he said, his words unmistakingly referring to the prince. “If anything goes wrong, I’ll make sure to find you and take your life for it. Never forget that.”

She squared her shoulders, nodding. Only then the warrior moved, letting her and Dende leave the dome and its mysteries.

She retrieved their weapons and supplies from the warriors that took them, and proceeded to follow the child in the maze of tunnels and detours that led to the exit of the cave. She could already see the silhouette of the trees, in the feeble light at the end of the last tunnel, when Dende broke the silence, his green eyes open wide and planted on her blue ones: “Is he really going to kill the Emperor?”

It was the same question she was asking herself since the discussion in the main cave. She knew very well the answer, even if she was afraid to say it out loud.

“Yes.”

It was simple, the truth. She knew Vegeta well enough now, to know nothing would stop him. He was willing to lose himself for revenge, and he had made his choice without a second thought: nothing she could say would stop him. But that realization hurt so much, an unknown pain throbbing in her chest. When Dende took her hand, Bulma realized a tear had escaped her eyelashes.

“Father Saiqhor always says that revenge is greedy: it doesn’t give you back what you lost, but takes even more, your mind and your heart.”

The child’s hold tightened, and she could see his lip trembling. “I know it all, but I still want revenge for my mama and dad. Am I a bad person, Nani-Bulma?”

The princess crouched and hugged him, holding him so close and tight he couldn’t make out her hiccups and tears from his own.

“No Dende, you’re not a bad person. You’re only human.”

She knew the power of revenge, and she understood why the prince craved it. He had waited ages for that moment when the Emperor will pay for his crimes. He had sought retribution for so long, it had become his only possible future. His destiny. But Dende was right: revenge would not give him back his family, his kingdom, the life he couldn’t have.

Maybe the spheres were really cursed. They all were.

But hope was not lost. There was still time, time to make him reconsider his choice, to find another way. There had to be one. And she had to be strong, for Vegeta, for Dende, all of them. But for now, Bulma let the child cry, freeing her own tears without shame and letting go.

 

*

 

The return trip had been as silent as the previous one. It was as if the presence of the new Dragon Sphere sucked away energies and words from the group. Maybe those blasted orbs were really cursed, thought Vegeta. They had ridden without pause, stopping only to eat and sleep, and he had avoided any contact with his companions, drowning his frustration in desperate and mind-numbing training. Without manyh results, to his dismay. Why the confrontation with the woman bothered him so much? He had told her the truth: he would do anything to destroy Frieza once and for all. Even sell his own damned soul. But the disappointment and the fear that had darkened her eyes at the revelation still hunted him, leaving him restless and unreasonably angry at the world and even at himself. And for what? There wasn’t any other way to conquer the power of Ozaru. That was the price, a price he was willing to pay, and she had no right to make that decision for him. When the outline of the Sayan camp was finally into view, the prince spurred his horse to reach his destination faster, letting the wind and the sand slap his face and void his troubled mind.

When his horse stopped at the border of the camp, Vegeta realized something was wrong. Nobody was there to greet the prince and his return, but the acrid smell of ashes and smoke burned his nostrils. He could see the orange glow of many bonfires on the other side of the camp. He was debating what to do, when Raditz and Bulma reached him.

“Where the hell is everyone?” asked Raditz, shouting to call whoever was nearby.

Finally, a figure emerged from the distance: it was Goku.

“Kakarott, about time you showed up,” snapped Vegeta, dismounting from his horse and entering the camp, as he reached the other Sayan. “Did you find our army? What does my father say?”

Goku lowered his gaze, strangely silent.

“I found them, but…”

His shoulders slumped and when his eyes met the prince’s one, he found them red and swollen. Realization hit him like a slap in the face. The fires... they couldn’t be…

“What the hell is going on?”

“Vegeta, I…”

“Spit it out!” the prince shouted.

His cousin only lowered his eyes once more, turning slightly towards the center of the camp.

Vegeta shoved him aside and hurried his pace, the acid taste of ash and fear coating his insides. He turned around the last tent, and finally saw: many funeral pyres were already lit and burning, while others were still being prepared, among mournful chants and cries. At the center of the village, two bigger structures stood, one a little taller than the other. Vegeta legs buckled and bent, making him fall on his knees on the sand. He felt Bulma’s strangled gasp beside him, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the scene in front of him. Among the burning remains of the Sayan Army, laid the lifeless bodies of their King and his most trusted General, waiting to be turned into ashes and join the soldiers in their last voyage.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So so so sorry for the delayed update! I had a complicated summer, involving moving in a new house and all that stuff... And if I hadn’t already enough on my plate, this had been a difficult, difficult chapter to write. But I felt the need to pull some strings together, and begin to clarify the mystery of the prophecy and the spheres. I only hope the result is not too “instructional”. 
> 
> We are really getting closer to the core-drama of this fic, and I have to warn you, the mood will darken accordingly. Even the Spheres are not so promising anymore: I wanted to picture them less fairytale-like, in contrast with the ones in the anime and manga. No magical orbs that satisfy every wish: you have to struggle, earn the right to make a request and pay for the consequences of your wish.  
> The power of Ozaru, as well, it comes with great responsibilities (ha ha) and a challenge for control. In this the duality of Vegeta, the man and the Djinn, will clearly play a prominent role. 
> 
> As for poor King Vegeta… I suppose you saw it coming, but it bothered me to “kill” him so early. I wanted to further explore this enigmatic character, but it didn’t match my main storyline. Maybe in another fic?  
> As always, thank you for your many comments and support. Future updates will be more frequent from now on, I promise! <3
> 
> By the way, I saw yesterday the new RutBisbe’s fanart for my fic, and yes, I’m still sobbing with immense gratitude for the beauty of it, while giggling like mad for some detalis (the hand print on his butt… a true piece of art, my friend!) Please, go worship her talent on her Tumblr! <3


	15. Unspoken words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’ll find me on the uncertain land between the words spoken and the ones left unsaid. 
> 
>  
> 
> Sountrack: “Oya” by Ibeyi; “Rani sa (The Queen’s theme) - Ending credits” by Sanjay Leela Banshali from the movie “Padmavati”; “Ayat” by Sanjay Leela Banshali from the movie “Bajirao Mastani”

 

 

_“Queste saranno ben lagrime et questi_

_Saranno ben caldi sospiri ardenti_

_Anima bella, quel che sempr'havesti_

_Soave amor in questa valle oscura_

_Altro amor, altre voci & altri accenti _

_Da più amaro dolor svegliati e desti_

 

These will be good tears and these

will be good, hot ardent breaths

Beautiful soul, you've always had

Gentle love in this dark valley

Another love, other voices and other accents

From more bitter pain, awake and rise

 

_The kings are in motion_

_A king is been crowned_

_We all wait, praising and longing for peace”_

 

(“ _Queste saranno_ ”, by Origa)

  


 

Every time he saw a funeral pyre, Vegeta thought about his mother.

At the time her funeral was observed, he had already been far away, shackled to the very man that had caused his loss. Still, in his mind's eye, he could see her so clearly, it was as if he had been there. She would have lain upon the altar in her best dress, the crown nestled among her braided dark hair, her expression serene, as if she was sleeping, uncaring of the flames licking and caressing her body, of her kidnapped child and the mess her departure had left behind.

Twenty years had passed, yet the prince wished he’d really been there, if just to know how to deal with the overwhelming and contradictory emotions taking hold of his mind.

The King lay before him, wrapped in an opulent drape, his broken sword at his side, a most loyal companion in a life of battles and struggles.  

He didn’t seem so tall and intimidating anymore, his features somehow smoothed by a serene expression Vegeta had never seen on his father’s face. Or, maybe he couldn’t remember a time when the worried crease between the king’s eyebrows wasn’t a permanent scar inflicted by hard times. Never a man of many words, the prince remembered painstakingly well how the joy of his son’s return from imprisonment had made the man clumsy and unsure. But, aside from that embarrassing slip, the king had maintained a somewhat cold distance from him those last two years.

Nappa confessed once that the king still felt guilty for the queen’s death and the struggles his son had been forced to endure. That was a topic father and son never broached. Vegeta reasoned it was better this way.

When his eyes slid from the King’s corpse to Nappa’s, his chest constricted painfully, reminding him of the choking hugs the General trapped him into, when he was just a scared child.

Was that remorse? After all, Nappa had followed and cared for him for almost twenty years. He was there to watch him grow from a scared child to a feared man. They had striven together, shared the same sufferings and losses. In the end, throughout those years of captivity, Nappa had been the closest thing to a father he had known. Even more than his own real father. He had never expressed those feelings in words, but the prince knew deep down the older General _knew_.

Now, here he stood, lighting the pyre of not one, but two fathers: one bound to him by blood, the other by loyalty and affection. A gruff but devoted companion who had saved his life so many times he was starting to believe he was somehow invincible. And yet Nappa had fallen, side by side with his father, in an ambush brought by Frieza’s men.

“I found our Army two weeks after departing camp,” Goku had told the prince some hours before. “I searched for survivors, finding them in the villages nearby. Many had been rescued by nomadic tribes or locals, and were hiding from Frieza’s raiders. They  had been heading North, halfway to the city of Khold, when an Imperial battalion ambushed. From what I could gather, they hadn’t had any contact with Bardock at the time. The imperial soldiers were too many, better armed and equipped. Our army tried to resist but…”

“The survivors and I, we brought back as many of our fallen as we could manage,” Goku had concluded in a trembling sigh, a shadow darkening his usually smiling face. “And I sent another messenger to track down my father, to tell him what happened. I don’t know if the scout found him yet. With Frieza's forces around, he might have needed to relocate the camp.”

Vegeta had listened in silence, eyes glued to the tremulous flame of the lamp at the center of his tent as if it was the last light left in the darkness of his world.  That same light now flickered at the end of the torch in his grip, the fire scorching hot on his rigid fingers. He watched all his people gathered around him, their grim faces striped with tears. The women’s chants and mournful cries pierced the silence of the night. But, even amidst their tangible sorrow, the fire of their rage was inescapable, burning behind teary eyes with a lethal promise.

_Revenge_ , those eyes implored of their Prince.

“I can hear them. All of them,” the prince whispered, his voice bristling with barely contained fury. “The dead soldiers, from the king to the last man of the infantry, women, children, elders-- I can hear them crying and asking for retaliation. The snake Emperor owes the Sayans a blood debt, and I will ensure he pays his due, tenfold!”

The flames flared so high they drew ominous shapes in the dark sky; clouds of smoke shrouding him like the shadows of the dead. His father, Nappa, his people: their void and lifeless eyes were on him, now. He couldn’t let them down.

Vegeta lifted the torch to the sky, a burning dare to death and all its friends.

“Today I declare war on the Empire! May it crumble and burn under our undying hate. I won’t rest until the flames of Hell swallow the rotten corpse of Frieza, until his cries for mercy can be heard by the highest stars. He was afraid of us, threatened by the prospect of our kingdom would rise up to overthrow his tyranny. That time has come! Today we rise and reclaim our legacy. To honor our fallen comrades, to sate our Sayan pride, we wage war. So I ask you, sons of Ozaru-- **_Are you with me?”_ **

A roar erupted from the crowd, dozens of voices converging into one desperate cry, claiming justice and blood. Under the eyes of the Sayans gathered around him, Vegeta tossed the torch on the pyres, the flames quickly licking at the remnants of the fallen king and his General.

He watched the flames until his eyes stung. Amidst the burning chaos, a soft sound made him turn. A short distance behind him, Bulma was crying, tears flowing freely down her beautiful face, hands clasped tight above her heart. But her eyes were not on the pyres. As the ashes of his life caught and scattered in the breeze, Vegeta locked eyes with her, letting the blue depths anchor him on the unforgiving earth; as if, without that tether, he too could vanish in the dark and starless sky.

*

“Dammit!”

Seated on the carpets of her tent, Bulma swore for the tenth time that evening, pushing aside the parchment and the nib with rage. It was useless. After days of hard work, she was still to find what she was looking for.

She didn’t have much time left. War lurked on the horizon, and everybody counted on her to find the last piece that would turn an announced tragedy into a chance of victory. If only Vegeta hadn’t been so fiery, so damned determined…

She felt stuck, helpless. Defeated. If she didn’t find the last sphere, that stupid prince - no, king - would set the Sayan forces on a battle path destined for certain failure. A bloodbath.

On the other hand, if she did manage to locate the last Dragon orb, Vegeta would sacrifice himself to get the power he craved, the power needed to exact his revenge. For how much she struggled and banged her head, she couldn’t find a way out of that inner maze. And time was slipping through her fingers. Frustration coated her insides, mixing with anger and panic.

She slammed her fist on the scattered pieces of paper, symbols and formulas swimming under her tired eyes. With the vehemence of her gesture, the precariously poised ink well tilted, and, before she could right it, tumbled and spilled its content on the carpet and her scrolls. Bulma gasped, dabbing the mess she had made with a spare rag, but the stain only spreaded on the precious tapestry. She threw the rag away, fisting her hair until her eyes burned with unshed tears.

“Fucking… stupid, useless-!”

“You’re really a vulgar woman...”

Bulma veritably jumped, startled.

Vegeta stood before her, at the entrance of the tent, arms crossed tight over the broad expanse of his chest, the paragon of a powerful, imposing ruler. But, she had learned to read between the lines where her prince was concerned. His voice was strained and hoarse, and the weariness of the last days clung to him like a heavy cape. She remained seated, fighting the urge to get up and hug him. He wouldn’t appreciate the gesture in his riled state.

“No one’s here but you. Who cares?” she snorted with more vitriol than she felt, averting her gaze from the approaching prince to better mask her concern. They hadn't shared any length of time together since the royal funeral and the formal declaration of war. He had been too busy arranging the forthcoming battle, deploying scouts, contacting old allies and neighboring kingdoms; leaving no stone unturned in his quest to amass the most formidable core of warriors for the upcoming battle. Judging by the way his frown deepened, the search for reinforcements was proving less fruitful than he'd hoped.

Bulma sighed, lowering her gaze to the stained parchments scattered about her and the many annotations, formulas, and coordinates now unreadable.

“I can’t locate the last sphere,” she confessed in a near whisper to the ink stain on the carpet. “It may be too far, out of the compass’s range, maybe. Would explain why the damned thing can’t detect a signature to plot a course…”

The prince’s gaze wandered through the ruined parchment strewn about the ground for a long time, wordless, before proceeding to pull his tunic over his head and preparing for the bed.

“You have nothing to say about it?” she insisted, appalled by the lack of reaction from him. Vegeta only shrugged, abandoning his tunic carelessly on the floor.

“It doesn’t matter anymore. I leave with the Sayan Army for war tomorrow.”

Bulma felt her heart leap to her throat, a hard knot nearly choking her. She sprung to her feet, hands balled into fists.

“What... What are you saying?” she stammered. Her worst fear was coming to pass, the one that kept her awake the last few nights, the one that spurned her feverish research and calculations...

She was out of time. He was leaving.

Vegeta discarded his boots, careful not to cross her gaze. “We’ll get going at dawn. Warriors from other scattered Sayan tribes who answered the call to battle will join us on the way to-...”

The slam of Bulma’s hand on the main pillar of the tent interrupted his aloof report. Her fist was shaking.

“In Namaq you were ready to sacrifice your life and your soul for the Power of Ozaru,” she said, voice trembling with anger. “And now you’re giving everything up? Are you insane?”

Vegeta didn’t turn, but his movements stilled.

“No. I simply don’t have time for this nonsense anymore.”

Bulma’s mouth clicked shut, teeth clattering painfully, his words impacting with the force of a violent slap.

“Nonsense... _Nonsense!_ ? You dare diminish our several brushes with death, the dangers faced, the kidnapping, all the struggles endured scouring every corner of this godforsaken desert… to mere _nonsense_?”

“Watch your tongue, womam…” he seethed, a warning ringing in his deep voice. But Bulma wasn't having it, no longer capable of containing the stifling mix of frustration, anger and panic that had been building for days. Worse of all was the fear: the overwhelming insides-twisting dread of losing him in this futile battle; to witness his blood spilled on the sand of some distant land, knowing she could have prevented it, she could have worked harder, done more - _anything_ \- to dissuade him from this suicidal path.

She crossed the few meters that separated them, grabbing his arm roughly in the futile attempt to make him turn and confront her. “No, you’ll listen to what I have to say, for once! I’ve risked my life, risked the peace of my kingdom to find those damned spheres, and now you tell me it was just a _nonsense_ ? I’ll ask you again: are you _fucking insane_ , Vegeta?”

He was on her like a wild lion, his fingers clawing into her shoulders to shake her violently, while she blindly beat her fists on his chest.

“You never know when to shut up…” he growled.

She was so close, the shadows under his eyes were impossible to ignore, as well as the stale scent of too much training and not nearly enough rest. When was the last time she had felt him sleep beside her? She couldn’t remember, grown accustomed to find his side of the bed equally cold and untouched in the mornings as when her overtaxed mind finally surrendered to sleep at night.

She dragged her nails over the tight flesh of his chest, the tattoo over his heart twisting and warping under her fingers. “Why, Vegeta?” she whispered, as a sudden sob shook her chest. “We’re so close to gather all the spheres! Why do you want to throw everything away and get yourself killed?”

“Because I have to!” he shouted in her face. “That’s what’s expected of me!”

*

He should have known.

He had come back to his tent hoping to get some rest before the most important battle of his life. But, the damn woman was there, grating his already frayed nerves as usual. In the numbing days spent in preparations, he had thought about the spheres more than once, not knowing if it were more prudent to delay the war to find the last one, or leave for battle armed only with his sword, his rage, his pride-- prophecies and legends be damned.

He had not found the answer, but the woman - or destiny itself - had made that decision for him. The ruined scrolls abandoned on the tent’s floor stood testament. He slowly released her, knowing his rough grip would bruise her delicate skin. Yet, as always, she couldn’t let the subject drop.

“You’re expected to be a _king_ ,” she said, anger subsiding slowly from her voice. “A living, breathing ruler! If you declare war now, it will be a massacre…”

“Are you questioning my skills or my men?” he growled back. “Don’t forget you’re talking to the Djinn…”

“No, I’m talking to Vegeta!” she snapped, her voice rising once again. “The prince… no, the _king_ of Sayans! The one supposed to rule this tribe and-…”

“I’m not their king!” he shouted, interrupting her rant. The frustration of the hopeless situation forcing the simmering rage in his gut to boil over. “I was the enemy, Bulma, I used to fight for the man that killed their king, _my father_. I was rescued by a clown, and then what? I’ve been staying here, hidden among women and children for the last two years, doing nothing. _Nothing_. But I won’t hide in a corner anymore, waiting for a miracle or a legend. With this war, I’ll show them what I’m capable of. I’ll be the king they deserve.”

He took a step back, surprised by his own confession, knowing he had said too much. The woman remained silent, watching him, her lips sealed and her eyes filled with realization and something else…  Doubt? Or maybe pity? If it was the latter, he couldn’t stand it. Growling, Vegeta fled to his bed and the shelter of the covers, turning on his side to put an end to the uncomfortable discussion.

He was tired, exhausted, really. But, above all, he wanted to erase the memory of what he caught lingering in his people's eyes: the doubts, the unspoken interrogatives. Those eyes that questioned his worth and whether his return had been blessing or blight. To see that same look on her face hurt more than he was ready to admit.

The woman’s prolonged silence raked up his back, but when he felt her weight shift on the cot, he didn’t turn. Her breath was warm on his nape, soft as her words.

“You don’t have to prove yourself to them. They’re _your_ _people_ … They love you. And you _are_ their king.”

He shrugged, too tired to bother hiding his uncertainties any longer. It was futile, and he was leaving, anyway. It occurred to him, if there was someone in the whole desert who could _understand_ this burden, the constant need to prove one's worth, it was probably her.

“I’m not their king. I am and I will always be a prince, someone who doesn’t truly belong.”

_A lost prince._

“They follow me out of fear for who I was, and because I’m the heir. No one will even cry at my funeral,” he added, his voice bitter and rough as sandpaper.

“That’s not true,” she said, solemn. Her warm hands trembled as they slid tenderly along his spine, smoothing his scarred skin. But her voice was sure, unfaltering. “I’d follow you. I’d cry for you.”

When she rested her forehead on his back, reaching around him and cradling his heart in her hands, Vegeta realized he could breathe again. The vice that had gripped his lungs the past days suddenly loosened, and in its place came a liquid heat that swarmed through his blood and burned his tired eyes.

Not ready to admit how deeply moved he was by her words, he cleared his voice. “You better, or I’d disown you.”

Her chuckle, still a little teary, reverberated through his chest.

“You can't disown a fake bride.”

“Then maybe I should keep you…” he half whispered, the words leaving his lips before his mind granted permission.

“What?”

He turned suddenly, crushing her body to his with a foreign longing.

“Nothing,” he said, sinking his nose in her hair. Gods, her scent. It was a unique blend he would recognize anywhere: a mix of her flowery oils, ink and something coppery and sharp that reminded him of the scent of a freshly made sword.

He inhaled it greedily, realizing it could be the last time he could indulge in those inane little moments. No, he corrected himself, he would return victorious from the battle.

He had to.

Bulma’s lips, barely brushing his neck, derailed his thoughts and made his pulse run with anticipation. The prince shivered, gritting his teeth, trying a last feeble attempt at resisting the inexplicable pull of her very presence.

He had managed to keep his distance from the woman the whole trip back from Namaq, and the wearisome days that followed. But, all had been for naught, as it took but a delicate touch and a whiff of her scent to make him forget his resolve, his worries and the world outside. Vegeta tightened his hold on her body, and she hugged him back, dragging her blunt nails over his skin once more. He took her delicate jaw in his calloused hand, delving in the depth of her blue eyes.

_I’d cry for you._

Her words rung so sincere, as if she actually cared. But why would she? Everyone that had cared for him was dead. Was she really foolish enough to hold some kind of affection for a demon like him?

She opened her mouth to say something, but he grazed her lips with his thumb, her trembling exhale warming his fingers. It wasn't the time for words they could come to soon regret. The dawn was near, and he just wanted to curl up in her warmth and hold her one last time under the cloak of darkness, before the first light of the damned sun set his world afire and tinged the soil with blood.

*

It always came down to this: his hands fumbling with her clothes, muted whispers and sighs, her warm lips on his dark skin. Their fights, the incessant quarrels and jabs, every harsh word between them, only served as fuel to the fire that consumed them, little by little.

Was it a funeral pyre, too? She didn’t know.

Bulma dragged her nails on the prince’s back and met his urgency with her own, dreading the incoming dawn and his departure, wanting to imprint his touches on her skin like a tattoo, to lose herself to his essence, just a bit more.

She knew he was saying goodbye. She resented him for that, her stubborn and prideful prince. Yet, at the same time, she couldn’t bring herself to let him go, even for a moment, while they struggled to get rid of the last layers of clothes between them.

It was a war of wills, a hand-to-hand match between his pride and her stubbornness, where sweet violence punctuated every caress. Growls morphed into groans, kisses turned into bites, as they both lost themselves in a moment of sweet madness. She welcomed his bruising grip on her thigh. It would leave a mark to remember him by. In turn, she gifted him a necklace of angry red half-moons, left by her teeth and nails.

Vegeta answered her vicious attack with a violent thrust of his hips, burying himself into her to the hilt, taking her breath away. They both froze, sensations suddenly too inumerable to process. In that pause, she took the time to look at him - _really l_ ook at him -,  the naked man above her, not the lost prince, nor the new king of the Sayans. His tattoos rippled in the tremulous light of the oil lamp, following the rhythm of his heavy breathing. His dark eyes hid something in their depth, a treasure meant only for her, but still out of her grasp.

She knew he felt crushed by his new responsibilities, rushed from basic survival to having the destiny of an entire tribe on his shoulders. A drop of sweat slid along the crease of his forehead, his brows furrowed in the effort to hold back and savor the moment. She wiped it away with a kiss, hoping - if just for a moment - to alleviate some of the weight of his many burdens. She felt him move with a grunt, as his mouth found the sensitive skin of her neck, mapping her flesh with his travels, raising standards to his conquest.

Her legs wrapped themselves around his hips like vines, as her hands travelled over his body, to trace the dips and valleys of his skin, from the taut muscles of his shoulders, to the dip of his side, and the chiseled contours of his abdomen, where his tattoo danced hypnotically, in time with his thrusts. Vegeta’s hands, too, travelled across her body, down the curve of her breasts, fingers closing and tugging a painfully taut nipple. His rhythm never faltered, building like a tide that swelled in her abdomen and engulfed her mind with numbing pleasure.

When his rough fingers slid between their bodies to tease the swollen flesh of her clit, a jolt shook her whole body, and time stopped in the freeing bliss that swallowed her moans and cries. Spasming with the aftershock of her orgasm, she clung with all herself to Vegeta, the last foothold before the fall, tangling her hands in his hair and pulling him down until their foreheads touched.

In that moment, her blue eyes lost in his black ones, she opened her mouth to say something, three words on the tip of her tongue.

_Please don't go._

Instead, she kissed him, because suddenly words were scarier than the future itself.  


*

He woke up to a sense of unease, the bed empty beside him. Vegeta rose swiftly, sleep soon forgotten. The light of the dawn cut through the tent like a blade, drawing sharp angles on the canopies. A bright ray bounced on a metal surface, nearly blinding his still weary eyes.

Bulma stood before him, already dressed, her expression uncharacteristically timid and unsure. Her voice was a whisper but reverberated through the tent like an echo.

“There’s something I wanted to give you, before you go...”

He lowered his inquisitive gaze to the object gripped in her fragile hands: the Sayan armor. The same one she repaired and enhanced for him not so long ago. Its polished metal, carved with the Sayan insignia, shone in the feeble light of the dawn like the precious jewel it was.

“You should try it on.” Bulma suggested, as an afterthought, in answer to his silence.

The prince remained silent, his chest tight in anticipation as he dressed. When he approached the woman and reached for the armor, her fingers tightened on the metal, and she shook her head softly.

“May I?”

Vegeta nodded and stood still, allowing this last of her wishes.

The silence was suddenly thick and charged with unspoken words. She fastened the armor with unsteady fingers, eyes low, mouth tight, reduced to a thin slit. For how much he enjoyed silence, Vegeta felt the sudden need to fill the void with words, and tell her...Tell her what? Tell her about the pathetic need to lick the pout away from her lips? The raw impulse to hold her tight against him, armor and all, or the desire to wipe away the tears brimming from her eyelash?

No, he couldn't succumb to such mundane distractions, not now, not on the verge of his promised blaze of glory.

She finished tightening the buckles at his side, her hand sliding on the shiny metal to pause on the left breastplate, the one singed with the royal crest.

"Promise me you'll come back," she whispered.

She had this knack for asking things of him beyond his own power to grant. Vegeta remained silent, watching a veil of disappointment spread across her face. Instead, he covered her hand with his own, wishing it would be enough, hoping she could read in the small gesture the answer he didn't know how to voice.

“In that cave, in Namaq…” he rasped, unsure. “You presented yourself as a Sayan princess. Did you mean it?”

She looked at him, puzzled, her delicate brows furrowed, tears momentarily forgotten.

“Yes, I... What are you trying to say?”

Vegeta watched his mother’s dagger dangling from her waist, the light bouncing on the rubies of the sheath. They sparkled like the determination in her eyes, when she had said those words in that cave.

“If something happens ... if my cousins and I should fail to return…” he whispered, trying to ignore the uneasiness that clenched his insides at his words. “Hide where no one could find you, and secure the spheres. Take my people and relocate the camp. They'll need a guide, someone who could protect them…”

His gaze drifted towards her face, watching her lip quiver, denial and pride swirling freely in her eyes, drowning in the tears she refused to shed.

"I entrust them to you, _my Queen_."

Bulma held his gaze for a long time, her face unreadable. Then she straightened her spine, nodding solemnly. A stray tear escaped the iron walls of her eyes, but she wiped it away hastily, before his fingers could reach her cheek.

“A month,” she finally said. “If I don’t hear any news or message from you after a month, I’ll relocate the camp. I’ll protect them, I promise.”

Vegeta nodded, freeing her hand with reluctance. There was something missing, a nagging feeling in the back of his skull telling him he should have said something else, given her so much more.

She turned before he could open his mouth, taking the helmet to secure over his brow. Her hand lingered for a moment, sliding from the metal to his cheek, gently cupping his face.

Her lips parted, and, in that moment, Vegeta felt the overwhelming need to have one last kiss, one last taste of this woman that stirred so many foreign and conflicting emotions in him. But the drape covering the entrance of the tent was swept aside, and she abruptly pulled back, putting some distance between them.

Goku looked serious for once, if entirely oblivious to his interruption.

“Vegeta, the soldiers are ready to go.”

The prince nodded, following his cousin out the tent’s draped entryway.

Outside, the soldiers were deployed and at the ready. Vegeta took the reins of his stallion from Raditz, who was waiting for him, and mounted with a swift move.

“Bring him back in one piece, will you?” he heard Bulma say to his cousins.

“Of course,” Goku answered, his goofy smile a little unstable on his stupid face.

Vegeta ignored the exchange, turning towards the small crowd gathered around them.

“I leave Queen Bulma in charge,” he said to the group of women, children and elders not leaving for the battle. “Follow her orders until my return.”

Over the loud cheers of his people, the prince felt Bulma taking his hand and for a split moment he wished to feel her lips on the inside of his wrist, to have her mark on his skin to wear proudly in battle, like armor against the world.

But she just held his hand, her thumb massaging his knuckles in nervous circles and Vegeta quickly dismissed the ridiculous thought.

“I’ll wait for you, my _saiyyan_ ,” she finally said, her blue eyes full of determination.

Vegeta paused, his brows furrowed. That strange word again…

“What does that mean?” he asked, genuinely curious.

She smiled, squeezing his hand once more before letting go.

“I’ll tell you when you come home”.

He wanted to say he didn’t have a home to come back to. But her soft voice, her open smile, and the feel of her sweaty palm over his fingers…. _that_ , Vegeta thought before turning to leave, that was the closest thing to a home he could ever remember knowing.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m terribly sorry for the long waiting, it’s been one hell of a month, I barely found the time to sit and write. But here we are, in the most difficult moment for our two lovebirds. The last scene,the goodbye with Bulma holding the prince’s hand, beautifully designed by Stupidoomdoodle (follow her on her Patreon!), was the one that inspired the whole fic so for me this is somehow a special moment. 
> 
> I’d like to thank with all my heart ETNRL4L who offered to beta-read this and the following chapters and helped me to rectify my many syntax slips and errors. I’m also grateful to all of you that voted at the The Prince & The Heiress’ Vegebul Annual Award, making it possible for this fic to come second in the “Best character development” category. <3
> 
> The song quoted at the beginning is sung by Origa, a russian singer who worked with Yoko Kanno at the soundtrack of many anime (Ghost in the Shell, among many others) but sadly she passed away some years ago… She had a beautiful voice and the lyrics are in italian, so this song is very dear to me. 
> 
> I would like to thank every one of you for your comments and support, and the wonderful fanarts dedicated to The Lost Prince! <3 I’m so honored! I just found out on tumblr an amazing work by Patriciabriefs who managed to replicate Bulma’s dress on Ghermeez exactly the way I imagined in my head. Amazing! *___*


	16. The Queen's pledge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Not every war is won with might, and Sayan women are as much warriors as Sayan men.”  
> The Queen makes her move.
> 
> WARNING: mention of torture and violence
> 
> Sountrack: “Feraghi - Song of Exile”, by Niyaz; “Nagada sang dhol” by Sanjay Leela Banshali from the movie “Goliyon ki Raasleela - Ram Leela”

 

 

 _“Come flying at a rapid speed and unlock the shackles off my feet_  
_Along with the kettle-drums, the drums are beating_  
_My restless heart is dancing round and round_  
_It’s calling out to my beloved_  
_Along with the kettle-drums, the drums are beating”_  
  
( _“Nagada sang dhol”_ , by Sanjay Leela Banshali)

 

 

In the whole world, there was no landscape more familiar to him than the that of a battlefield.

The sun was high and traced cruel lines on the dunes, the sand almost sparkling in the scorching air, saturated with the thick feel of anticipation and dread. The wind brought sounds of war, drums echoing, spears and shields crashing, along with the cries of the soldiers.

Vegeta stood, ready for battle, in the middle of two armies that were splayed like a pair of wings: one splashed crimson, the other striped in white and purple like a poisonous snake. He had worn that insignia, once upon a time. It had been a burning symbol of enslavement rather than a crest he would die for.

And there he stood, at the verge of his ultimate defeat or his greatest achievement, scrutinizing the imperial legion blanketing the horizon a few leagues off.

The Sayan Army was smaller in number, but their courage and his thirst for revenge had no equal. Still, in the back of his mind nettled a nagging whisper of unease Vegeta couldn’t silence from the moment their platoon had sighted the Imperial Army on their march towards the capital.

The prince waited for his cousins to reach him at the head of the aligned battalion, before speaking his mind. “I have something to ask of you.”

He could clearly see the surprise in the exaggerated arch of Kakarott’s stupid eyebrows, but he ignored it. It was already difficult enough.

“If for some unfathomable reason the Gods would not favor us in battle, today... I shall not fall in the enemy’s hand alive. I command that you bestow an honorable death before this comes to pass.”

Surprise melted to horror on his cousins’ expressions, but while Raditz managed to refrain his slip of emotion, Kakarott sputtered, “W-what?! Vegeta you can’t be serious…”

“I am, and I don’t want your opinion on this,” he seethed. “You were the one that hadn’t the spine to finish me when you had the opportunity two years ago. But this time, if circumstances go astray, you will finish the job.”

Ignoring Kakarott’s protests, the prince let his gaze drift over the immense Imperial Army splayed before them, ready to set about its bloody mission.

“I won’t let Frieza have the satisfaction to have his toy back,” he whispered, while memories of abuses and tortures flooded his thoughts. Even if he was a Djinn through and through, he refused to return to that living hell.  
No matter the cost.

“Vegeta please, you can’t ask us-”

Fury darkened his vision and Vegeta grabbed Kakarott’s collar violently, bringing his face so close to his, he could see panic swim in his cousin’s wide, guileless eyes.

“You remember that day, don’t you Kakarott?” he whispered, menacingly. “Do you remember that demon you fought? I’m still that demon. Frieza made me what I am, and I can’t let him do it again. I can’t and I won’t let him do it to anyone else.”

A bigger hand covered his own, still clamped on his cousin’s collar. Radit’s eyes were uncharacteristically somber and serious.

“Vegeta, please… The men are watching.”

Vegeta let go, pushing a still dumbfounded Kakarott back and shaking off Raditz’s hand.

He wasn’t accustomed to ask for things, especially to someone like Kakarott. But that clown owed him. It had been his choice not to strike the final blow, granting a mercy he neither deserved nor asked for.

A defiant and sudden image of Bulma flashed behind his eyelids.

“I’d cry for you”, she had said. Was she really waiting for him to come back?

Ignoring a sudden pang of guilt, Vegeta’s glare refocused on his cousins, his voice a heated whisper: “If I fall on the battlefield, this time you’ll have the decency and the gut to put an end to me. Promise me that, on your Sayan pride.”

Raditz brought his fist to his chest, nodding solemnly. The prince didn’t wait for Kakarott’s answer. The man hadn’t the right to refuse.

Vegeta got on his stallion and rode at the head of the Sayan Army, the sun setting afire the shining blades, already drawn and ready to salt the earth. Just before launching the attack, a glimpse of blue danced in his peripheral, like an unreachable mirage. Vegeta took a deep breath and raised his sword, a guttural cry erupting from his chest, triggering the aligned soldiers behind him.

The crimson scourge crashed down upon the dunes towards its destiny.

*

The sky was grey, heavy with menacing clouds that throbbed with the echo of a distant storm. The acid smell of smoke and death burned her nostrils and clinged to her dark dress. The Sayans were gathered in the center of the camp once again, mournful chants already filling the air with cries of sorrow. Something burned in the center of the mob and in her chest.

Bulma ran towards the flame towering over the crowd, a dreadful urgency crushing her lungs and whispering cruel words of loss in her ears.

The crowd opened like a red curtain, showcasing its macabre offering.

In the pyre at the center of the camp lay Vegeta, his broken body already singed by the flames’ caress. The armor she'd carved with so much care and passion lay shattered with his broken sword at the foot of the pyre.

Pain tore through her chest and sliced her in half like a blade, as she launched herself on the pyre. Instantly, flames caught her dress and her skin, a broken sob shaking her core while she tried to pry away her prince from the fire. But he was no phoenix, his body still as a stone, unnaturally cold in the burning heat of the fire.

She heard a scream, a desperate and heartbreaking sound that ripped through her lungs, so foreign and unrestrained it took her a moment to realize it came from her mouth. The gut-wrenching realization of the prince’s death was more painful than the burning fire that swallowed her whole.

She woke up drenched in sweat, her pulse so fast her heart threatened to burst from her ribcage.

For a moment Bulma didn’t recognize the welcoming darkness of the royal tent, and her hand wandered on the crumpled sheets around her, finding them painfully empty. She tasted the bitter and familiar taste of loneliness, swallowing a lump. No, he wasn’t there with her, but that didn’t mean he was dead either. Vegeta was alive. He would come back victorious. He had to.

She repeated those words like a mantra in her head, believing it each time a little bit more, replacing the dreadful image of his cold body with the vision of his prideful figure, triumphant on the battlefield, as his men cheered and the Sayan insignias waved in the morning breeze.

Her heart slowed its pace, thrumming to the steady rhythm of a war drum, a melody that spoke of victory, of his return. She remained still, knees pulled to her chest, eyes closed to better see that calming vision until the first sunlight filtered through the heavy fabric of the tent her to meet her eyelids, signaling another night of tormented dreams and dreadful nightmares had finally ended.

A new day was beginning, but her subconscious snidely reminded her it was day number 29. Her ultimatum was coming to an end, but no news from the Sayan prince had reached the camp yet. Another countdown, another agony, another grain of sand in the nearly empty hourglass that set the pace of her days of waiting.

When the sunlight reached the borders of her bed - their bed, her wicked mind whispered as an afterthought - Bulma got up with a swift move. She had things to do. Even if the last Dragon Sphere was still eluding her searches, she hadn’t idled, awaiting for the prince’s return doing nothing.

As difacto queen to the remaining Sayans and smart woman that she was, Bulma had to be prepared for the worst case scenario, if only to keep her relentless mind at bay and not surrender to the spiraling whirlwind of negative thoughts and worries.

She was tying the ever present dagger at her waist when ChiChi barged into the tent, her ragged breath screaming danger was near.

“The lookout spotted something on the horizon. Someone is coming,” she said, grabbing her hand.

Without saying a word, the two women ran outside, reaching one of the tall structures Bulma had commanded built to better spot any approaching enemies. Inside her, something stirred, balancing between panic and anticipation. If someone was approaching it could be either their army or Frieza’s. And the latter would mean that…

She looked at the sentinel perched atop of the tower, shielding her eyes from the sun and the stray thought.

“It’s a small group, but I can’t see any insignia,” the lookout shouted, pointing towards the East.

“Alert the women and prepare for battle,” Bulma whispered to ChiChi. “We have to be ready to anything.”

Her sister-in-law nodded gravely, running away with newfound determination.

Bulma unconsciously reached for the hilt of her dagger and planted her gaze on the horizon, waiting for the blurred line of the desert to morph into something recognizable.

It was indeed a familiar silhouette that greeted her and the small platoon of women assembled behind her, nearly an hour later.

At the head of the small group approaching the entrance of the Sayan camp, Goku waved at them, spurring his horse to go faster while the women cheered and ChiChi embraced her with a sudden sob of relief.

She threw herself in his arms the moment he jumped down from his horse. Bulma rushed behind, her eyes scanning the little group of soldiers at Goku’s back. Many of them were hurt, the most critical ones lay precariously on the few horses available, patched up with dirty bandages and scraps of fabric.

She looked around with increasing anxiety. Vegeta was nowhere to be seen. When Goku intercepted her eyes, a wave of nausea nearly made her fall on her knees.

“Goku, please…” she whispered, her throat dry as the desert itself. “Where is Vegeta?”

The Sayan spoke quickly, words stumbling in his haste: “He’s alive. But he is… Bulma, I’m sorry, I couldn’t bring him back. We were intercepted on our march and we had no choice but to fight, and-”

She couldn’t really hear what Goku was saying, his first words still ringing in her ears and obscuring everything else. A wave of relief kick-started her breathing after a moment.

Alive. Vegeta was alive.

Then another word made her search Goku’s arm for support. Captured. The prince was alive, but Frieza had him.

She shook her head to better understand the words that crowded her dizzy mind. Vegeta was alive, and she knew what to do. Looking around to gather her thoughts, Bulma realized someone else was missing, but ChiChi’s question anticipated hers.

“Goku, where’s Raditz?”

She would never forget the way her friend’s face crumpled under the weight of his following words, as if all reserves of strength had suddenly abandoned his being, draining his pale face and making his hands shake.

“He is…” he stuttered, and Bulma found in the lost way his lips opened and closed without making a sound the answer she was dreading.

Goku’s whole body deflated then, his knees buckling, and she was promptly at his side, helping ChiChi support his weight.

The princess swallowed her tears and took a deep breath. She couldn’t let sorrow and helplessness crush her right then. She had to be strong. For Goku, for Vegeta, for all of them.

“Caulifla,” she addressed to the woman nearest her. “Have one of the tents cleared of supplies and search for every girl who can sew. We have many wounded to look after. I made enough antiseptic in the past weeks, but Khale knows how to replicate the formula, in case there isn’t enough. Call me if there’s any critical patient. And you Khale,” she turned to a petite girl clenching nervously at the hem of her dress. “Go fetch Khabba, the blacksmith’s son. Tell him to bring over our last project”.

“Goku,” she added, squeezing her friend’s arm to comfort him and substitute pain with something else: a plan. “Go inside and wait for me, you too ChiChi. We need to talk...”

When she had made sure the wounded were being treated, Bulma came back to her tent. Her sister-in-law and her husband sat on the thick carpet, ignoring the chaos of maps, parchments and ink bottles scattered everywhere.

Bulma didn’t join them, too nervous to stay still, and not wanting to intrude in the couple’s moment of reconciliation and mourning.

“As you already know, the last sacred sphere is still nowhere to be found. I couldn’t leave the campsite to look for its signal, but I came up with a backup plan in case… in case…”

She couldn’t finish the sentence, the thought of Vegeta’s failure forming a painful knot in her throat.

Suddenly the drape covering the tent’s entrance was swept aside, and a young boy peeked timidly in.

“Come Khabba, show them what you’ve got,” Bulma encouraged him.

The blacksmith’s son opened the small package cradled between his arms. Six Dragon Spheres shone in the half-light, reflecting the unsure looks of their audience.

ChiChi’s brows furrowed. “Aren’t these the spheres you and Vegeta collected the past few months?”

Bulma shook her head, opening another bundle hidden in one of her trunks to showcase another set of golden orbs peeking through the fabric. The couple gasped in surprise.

“The ones Khabba showed you are fake, a copy to bring to the Emperor as a gift and a symbol of allegiance from the Sayan tribes.”

Goku choked on an incredulous sound. “Allegiance? I don’t understand…”

“I asked Khabba to help me create them to better protect the originals. You did a really good job, by the way,” she added, smiling at the young boy.

Sensing the inner turmoil of the Sayans before her, she clarified, “Rest assured, my friends, the Sayan tribe will never bend to the Emperor. But, in order to save Vegeta, Frieza must believe in our surrender. And I’ll be the tribute to that truce, along with the Sacred Spheres. The false ones, obviously...”

She noted the doubts swimming the depths of Goku’s dark gaze, as he sighed.

“Bulma… you’re not a warrior…”

“Not every war is won with might,” she quickly retorted. “And Sayan women are as much warriors as Sayan men.”

She found confirmation to the declaration in the proud smile ChiChi gave her. Frieza was accustomed to seeing women as harmless objects of pleasure. She knew he would underestimate her, as well. And that would be his downfall in the end.

“Goku, I’ll need you to relocate the camp in that cave we discovered in the Thorghal Canyon, taking the real spheres with you. They will be safe there. Then you’ll join us at the Khold Palace, in the Capital.”

“T-The Khold Palace?! And… what do you mean by us?” stuttered the Sayan.

“Send a message to the Emperor,” added Bulma, her voice suddenly sure and imperious. “Tell him that Bulma, the Queen of all the Sayans, will arrive in the city of Khold with a gift for the Great Emperor, and one hundred of her maids.”

She straightened her spine, as a strong and grounding determination settled in the depth of her heart.

“I’ll bring him back.”

*

Darkness was all he could see.

A thick, impenetrable wall of black that was becoming his world.

He didn’t know how many days had passed since the battle, since his failure and his imprisonment. The only sign of the passing of time, was the regular tickling of his own blood on the stone floor.

Pain had long become a dull, numbing constant. His battle wounds, like the deep gash on his side, had been roughly cauterized with fire, keeping him on the brink of death but stable enough to endure more tortures.

Tortures his jailer was taking great pleasure in delivering.

As if summoned from the deepest pit of Hell, lord Zarbon entered his jail, the fleeble light of his oil lamp clearing his view and nearly blinding his unaccustomed eyes.

The man dressed like the pompous toad he was, his embroidered tunic nearly exploding with frills, jewels and useless luxuries. He was ever shrouded in a cloud of perfume so thick and sweet it could rival the most vain of concubines.

Since his first days as hostage to the emperor as a child, the prince and the tyrant’s favorite counselor had never gotten along. The mutual dislike between the two had morphed into a deep rivalry throughout the years, with the vicious bastard never passing up the chance to make Vegeta’s life even more miserable than it already was.

Frieza knew this, so the presence of Zarbon in his cell, day after day, tortures after abuses, wasn’t really a surprise to the prince.

The man’s sickening smile made Vegeta’s muscles clench, and he strained reflexively -uselessly- against the chains that bound his arms and wrists to the walls of the cell.  
Zarbon’s slimy chuckle made his skin crawl.

“Oh, don’t worry, my dear prince, I’ve no intention to hurt you today. In fact, I found exactly what the Emperor was looking for: your precious bride…”

Vegeta grunted. He wasn’t falling for that. For days, Zarbon had tried to extort information about the whereabouts of Bulma and the spheres, failing miserably at his task.

Frieza wanted them, and was not known as a patient man. His useless wannabe courtesan had grown desperate enough to change his interrogation tactics, apparently.

He could feel Zarbon’s eyes on him, weighting carefully his reaction. After a while he clicked his tongue, annoyed.

“Vegeta, Vegeta… always the big talker, aren't you? Oh, but she was not as silent while the Emperor was messing with her…”

Vegeta closed his eyes, banning the disturbing thought from his mind. It was a lie, only a lie.

A sudden blow to his head opened a gash above his brow, the blood dripping down his face and staining his view red. A hand tangled in his hair and yanked his head back. Zarbon’s face was so close he could feel his foul breath, even among all that sickening perfume.

“Are you listening, you filthy monkey? Frieza had great fun fucking that stupid bitch. But, in the end, she wasn’t so special. So, he intends to pass her to me and our men. Even the lowest soldier has the right to blow off some steam, don’t you think? I’m looking forward to my turn with that whore...”

Vegeta gritted his teeth, using what remained of his strength to block the crude images Zarbon was painting with his filthy words. He wouldn’t let Frieza play with his mind this time.

The harsh grip at the base of his head lessened, and Zarbon snorted, wiping his hand in a candid handkerchief.

“But maybe you’re still in time to save her,” he whispered, his voice was suddenly sultry and gentle. “If you tell me where she hides those blasted spheres... I could even let you watch!”

Vegeta ignored his dirty laughter. He knew that Bulma was far away. She had relocated the camp. She was safe.

He clinged to that certainty with all his will, never letting it go, his only truth in the Emperor’s web of lies.

And, Bulma was there with him, too, in his mind, in that cocoon of comfort and memories he created in the darkest corner of that putris cell. She was there, gently holding his face between her hands, whispering quiet words in his ear, her voice calm and so real he could feel the warmth of her breath on his cheek, the ethereal touch of her lips on his, her gentle fingers entangled in his hair. She was there with him, and everything would be alright, for they couldn’t tear that Bulma away from him, couldn’t stain her vision with obscene lies, couldn’t even touch her.

 _His_ Bulma.

“You seem a bit distracted… and we don’t want that, do we?”

A violent kick, aimed right at the still tender wound on his side, made him let out a hoarse cry. The gash must have reopened. He could feel the warmth of blood sliding down his body. Black creeped around his vision, so Vegeta focused on the dim blue light that flickered just before his eyes, a light only he could see.

He was tired, so tired.

Before passing out, he felt the warmth of Bulma’s embrace once more, her smile lulling him to sleep, as her lips curled lovingly with that strange word she was fond of calling him. He clung to it while the world slipped from his view.

  
*

The walls of the Khold capital were high as a mountain, gaudily decorated with white flags and pennants.

Every stone of the Imperial Palace oozed opulence in stark contrast with the obviously enslaved peoples of many nations, crammed into the filthy barracks surrounding the citadel.

Bulma observed the dreadful scenery from behind the flimsy drape that covered her carriage, checking for the hundredth time that her entourage was still accounted for.

Even disguised as humble maids, one hundred Sayan women followed, awaiting her orders, putting their lives on the line for their queen and the first person who believed in them as warriors. She would not let them down.

The carriage halted under the dramatic arc of the main gate, the sole entrance of the city, and the silhouette of a soldier appeared on the other side of the veil.

“Greetings, my Lady. Get out at once, my men will escort you to the palace.”

Bulma exchanged a look with ChiChi, who sat in front of her in the carriage.

Her sister-in-law nodded, remembering her previous words. “I won’t be triumphed over.”

“With all due respect, soldier,” ChiChi said to the man, without so much as a glance in his direction, “Queen Bulma is not a prisoner, but the Emperor’s betrothed. She will be received accordingly, with all the respects and honors due to the new Empress.”

Even beyond the veil, she could see the soldier’s agitation in the way he fidgeted with his spear. After a moment of indecision, he bowed deeply. “My apologies, your Highness. Please, welcome to the Khold Empire.”

While the carriage passed through the thick walls of the capital, the two women let out the breath they'd both been subconsciously holding. ChiChi smirked, and Bulma smiled back, hoping her trembling hands wouldn't give away her growing restlessness, as the gates closed behind their caravan.

They had reached the point of no return. Now, everything was up to her.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go! I really wanted to post a new chapter before Christmas, but I’m not sure I will be able to post the next one before the end of the year. I’m struggling a bit with these last chapters and the next. I’m not accustomed to write about violence or torture, and i completely understand if you’re not comfortable reading this, but I feel Vegeta’s past and the abuses he endured should be kept in mind to better understand him and the evolution of his character. 
> 
> A big thank you to ETNRL4L, my wonderful beta-reader! <3 
> 
> “I won’t be triumphed over” is a line attributed to Cleopatra at her entrance in Rome, not as a prisoner or as a war trophy, but as the Queen of Egypt. I wanted to quote her, because her image as a powerful woman of history is much alike my ideal Bulma…


	17. The snake charmer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There she was, in the snake’s den, facing the Devil himself to bring back her prince. But he’s not the only monster out there...
> 
> Soundtrack: “Dhalem (Tyrant)”, by Emel Mathlouthi; “On iki eylul”, by Kardeş Turkuler; “Yeh Ishq Ishq hay Ishq- Leila-Majnu” from the movie “Aaja Nachle”
> 
> WARNING: Mention of violence, even against women

 

_ “Kill me, and I will write songs _

_ Wound me, and I will sing stories _

_ Melodies will rain down and dry up my tears _

_ Time will claim you while they will live on” _

 

[ _ “Dhalem (Tyrant)” _ , by Emel Mathlouthi]

 

 

Bulma eyed the imposing double doors to the Emperor’s apartments with increasing anxiety. 

After endless waiting, the guards had separated her from ChiChi and her entourage at the entrance to the Khold Palace, leaving her truly alone. 

With a deafening rattling, the door opened and on the other side stood a good-looking man, his braided hair cascading leisurely over his right shoulder. He wore the richest tunic she had ever seen, full of frills and embroidered gems.

The dismissive look he shot her as she walked towards him ruined the mirage, like a crack on a masterpiece, exposing the truth to man's nature beneath the veneers of expensive luxury and aristocracy. 

“You’re late. We were expecting you at least a week ago,” he said with barely concealed acrimony. 

Bulma cursed inwardly. She had done everything in her power to prolong her travel time, to postpone her arrival at the Khold Capital as best possible, to give Goku the time to catch up with her caravan. She hoped her friend was near because they hadn’t much time to pull her plan off.

She bowed, tilting her head graciously to the dandy-looking toff that observed her like she was just another concubine.

“Apologies, Lord…”

“Zarbon. I’m the elite counselor of His Majesty,” he added, inspecting his perfectly manicured nails.

Bulma took a deep breath before speaking again. “Apologies,  _ Lord Zarbon _ . We were detoured by a sudden sandstorm, and…”

“I don't care,” he replied, with a dismissive wave of his emaculate hand. “But you’ll learn soon enough to never make the Emperor wait.” 

His clear eyes dropped to the trunk Bulma held against her chest, where the fake Dragon Spheres lay hidden. 

“Are these the famous-...”

“Yes,” she cut short, not bothering to hide a little smirk at the toff’s  _ faux step _ . “And as you surely know, the contents of this box are not something you’d want to discuss so carelessly at the door, my Lord…”

Rage and embarrassment swam in Lord Zarbon's eyes before he looked around with worry. Then he grabbed the chest, literally ripping it from Bulma’s hands.

“Follow me,” he seethed between clenched teeth, giving her his back. 

The sound of her steps echoed in the tall, imposing halls of the Khold Palace, as Bulma made her way to her inevitable destination. 

Lord Zarbon walked in front of her, leading the way among the maze-like corridors and rooms, and Bulma couldn’t help but eye the box between his hands with increasing unease. 

She hoped with all her heart that the hoax would fool the Emperor’s entourage of sages and men of science. 

When her unwitting escort opened a double door at their right, Bulma shook her head. Her top priority was convincing the Emperor himself, and she should concentrate on that. 

Lord Zarbon scurried inside and left the open chest on an inlaid table in the center of the room. Urging her to enter, he retreated without sparing her more than a dismissive glance.

“Wait here and don’t touch anything,” he said, leaving and closing the heavy doors behind him.

Bulma took a few calming breaths, using the opportunity to look around. 

The room was blinding in its exaggerated luxury, each wall and corner brimming with gold and gems, precious tapestries and rare pieces of furniture. The floor itself was made of black marble, golden veins shining and reflecting the bright light of the many candelabras hung from the ceiling. 

Bulma looked up and the vibrant frescoes of the main vault assaulted her eyes with their colors and the crude scenes of massacres and battles. 

Following the Khold Empire’s bloody history displayed on the decorated walls, her eyes landed on the equally golden throne, perched on a stage on the other side of the room. It was carved and ornate with the finest decoration, although in a very dark way. 

Two sculpted snakes unwound their coils along the front, crawling up the armrests and the sides of the backrest, cleaving at the top. There they showed their fangs menacingly in a muted snarl that threatened to swallow their audience. 

“So what the many wanderers say of your unparalleled beauty is true…”

Bulma nearly jumped, taken by surprise by the sudden entrance of the Emperor from beyond a nearby curtain. 

The man wasn’t significantly tall, but his presence, even a few steps distant, was imposing and sinister. He wore one of the finest tunics she had ever seen, the candid linen almost shining, as well as the golden bands and jewels covering the Emperor’s neck and arms. 

His crown was golden too, a headdress covered with the golden reproduction of a snake’s scales, among which a big purple opal stood out like an ominous third eye. 

She bowed, but the emperor ignored her, reaching for the spheres on the table before him instead, and examining them with greedy eyes.

Then, his gaze left the golden orb in his hand and fell on her, piercing and dark. 

His painted lips curved into a wicked smile.

“Truly enchanting...”

Bulma lowered her eyelashes, timid and demure as a woman should be.

“Beauty could be a blessing as well as a curse, your Highness. In my case, it has caused me more trouble than anything,” she answered.

The Emperor laughed, but the humor didn’t reach the heavily contoured with thick black kohl eyes. 

“Oh my dear, but it's your mind that's the most valuable treasure, isn't it?” Frieza said, stepping closer to her. “What I would give to be able to open your frail skull and grasp your brilliance…” 

She knew with certainty that, given the opportunity, he would do exactly as he mused, meaning every word in the crudest and literal sense. 

She bowed once again, the perfect canvas of modesty and feminine coyness.  

“My secrets and discoveries are at your service my Lord, as they should have been months ago.”

The Emperor chuckled, his hand flying frivolously at his chest with glee.

“Oh, you're a little charmer, aren't you? I like that. But tell me, how did you manage to escape from the filthy hands of the Sayans?”

Bulma forced her lips to curve in a smile: “I didn't have to escape. I merely pointed out to the Sayans that keeping me there even after their kings' defeat would have been suicidal. So they agreed to recognize me as their queen and pledged their loyalty to the true ruler of the Empire. And now I'm where I was supposed to be before this incident took place.”

Frieza continued to smile, pacing indolently before her, more similar to a waiting predator than a benevolent ruler. 

“My dear, I love that clever tongue of yours… so, tell me, given your - for lack of better terms -  _ extended residence _ with the Sayans, what do you think of them?”

Bulma chose her words carefully, letting her gaze dance once again on the threatening decorations of the throne. A reminder, an omen.

“They're... an interesting people. A little unmanned, to be fair, and definitely primitive…” 

“Really?” Frieza interjected, snapping his fingers.

A valet appeared out of nowhere and handed him a veiled object. When the Emperor lifted the piece of fabric, she recognized it immediately, even if it was damaged greatly: Vegeta’s armor. 

“I'd say their technology - and aesthetic - has miraculously improved in recent times…”

Bulma couldn’t tear her eyes from the armor, taking in every cruel detail. Something had perforated the left side of the bust, bending and denting the metal in various places. 

There was blood smeared all over it. Her heart clenched at the sight. 

The Emperor seemed to ignore her sudden silence, still assessing the object in his hands as if it was a bad piece of art. 

“Maybe I should pay the Sayans a visit with my Army and put a stop to our little nuisance once and for all…” he finally suggested, letting the armor fall on the floor with a deafening clang.

Those words drained all color from her face, stabbing her heart with their cold promise. Bulma tried to regain some control over her trembling body, knowing the Emperor was observing her every reaction. 

She cleared her throat, trying to find her voice in the nest of anxiety that suddenly suffocated her.

“My Lord, as you already know, I came here with the Spheres I had found as your intended and ally, to fulfill my duty to the Empire. But I’m also here on behalf of what remains of the Sayan Tribe. They shouldn't pay for the wrong choices of their rulers. And certainly, a few women and elders aren't a threat to you or the immense power of the Empire. So I was hoping we could come to an agreement...”

Frieza laughed, a sound void and cold that did nothing to lighten the tension of their exchange.

“You want to make a deal? My dear, I think you misapprehend your position. I’m still deciding if I want to torture you to gain access to your secrets or simply eviscerate you right in front of Vegeta. You know, as a reminder…”

Frieza’s mean gaze danced over her body with malice, fixing finally on her wide eyes. “Maybe he doesn’t recall what it feels like when someone he loves dies...”  

The mere thought of being used against the prince struck her with the force of lightning, leaving her body limp and shaking like a tree in a storm. 

Once again, helplessness grasped her limbs and made her knees buckle. Still, with the tremendous effort fueled by willpower and rage, Bulma managed to keep the wave of panic at bay. 

She thought of Vegeta, his fear of attachment, the way he had trusted her with the destiny of his people, the sacrifice he was ready to make not to fall in Frieza’s hands once again. 

No, she resolved, straightening her spine like the proud Sayan Queen she was. She couldn’t and wouldn’t let Frieza win. 

With a swift move, Bulma unsheathed the dagger Vegeta gave her, hidden in the folds of her skirt, and pointed its deadly blade at her throat. 

For a long instant, she basked in the puzzled expression of the Emperor. 

“I understand my position very well, my Lord,” she said, her voice hard and unfaltering. “I’m the only one capable of finding the last Sacred Sphere and evoking the Dragon. And if I die, your wish dies with me. So, if you want to have a chance to find the missing orb, you will not harm me or the Sayans. As for the prince…”

Bulma prayed every deity she knew for the Emperor to believe her next words: “He only used me to find the spheres. I don’t care if you want to kill him or let him rot in your dungeons forever. I loathe him and he despises me equally. Our alliance was forced and unwanted.”

The Emperor looked at her for a long time, a vicious smirk never leaving his painted lips. Then he moved, getting closer and closer to her until they were face to face.  

Bulma pressed the dagger even more on her throat and felt a drop of blood drip down her skin like a solitary tear. 

The monster Vegeta despised and feared was merely a few inches from her, but she refused to let panic strangle her heart. 

All she could think of was her prince. She prayed to find him alive, to be strong enough to save him, to save them all. 

Suddenly, Frieza’s hand closed on her wrist, his grip so hard she had to let go of the dagger with a gasp. It clattered on the marble floor, its echo booming in the tense silence of the salon. 

The Emperor roughly wiped the trace of blood from her throat with his thumb. Then he brought it to his mouth and licked it. 

His tongue swirled leisurely between his fingers and Bulma realized it was cut in the middle, forked like a snake’s. 

“I must admit, I’m quite fascinated by your bravery,” he said, chuckling darkly. “Even if it will require some discipline. I think I’ll let you and your precious Sayan dogs live, for now, to see if you’re really as useful as you claim to be. But mind my words,  _ dear _ …”

He let her go, pushing her roughly and snapping his fingers. His demeanor fell suddenly void of any trace of mirth.

“Pull another stunt like that or talk to me again in that insolent tone, and I’ll make your insignificant life utterly miserable!”

Bulma swallowed, holding her wrist to her chest. When Lord Zarbon appeared behind her, she lowered her gaze in a bow but refused to show any trace of fear for the Emperor, who was now giving her his back, as if she didn’t exist anymore. 

“Bring my dear  _ spouse _ to her rooms to rest. We have a wedding to celebrate, after all,” he said to his counselor, who wasted no time in grabbing Bulma’s arm and dragging her out of the snake’s den. 

They had taken just a few steps in the void corridors when Bulma found herself violently pushed against a column. Zarbon’s forearm was pressed at her throat and chest, making it difficult to breathe.

“Just to make things clear…” he seethed, his lovely features deformed in a vicious mask of rage and something resembling jealousy. “If you think even for a second to be something more than a temporary toy for the Emperor, you will be greatly disappointed. So watch yourself,  _ princess _ , because I will take great pleasure in putting you in your place!”.

Even struggling to grasp a breath, Bulma smirked, licking her parched lips.

“I may be just a toy, but what will the Emperor say if you break his little bauble when he’s still playing with it?”

At that, Zarbon let her go with a snarl, grabbing once again her arm and pushing her along.

When they reached a heavily decorated door guarded by two soldiers, he opened it and literally threw her inside. “Make sure no one enters or leaves, except for the servants,” she heard Zarbon order to the guards before the echo of his angry steps faded.

As the door slammed behind her, Bulma surveyed her new prison. It was just a bedroom, decorated with the same pattern of gold, purple and white, the Imperial crest imprinted on each brocade curtain and velvety pillow. 

ChiChi, who had been anxiously waiting for her, rushed to her side.

Bulma stumbled back, leaning with her back to the door for support as her false lady-in-waiting hugged her. 

“He’s alive. I think the Emperor believed me, for now...” Bulma whispered, a sob breaking her voice mid-sentence. 

The barely contained tension which had accompanied her the whole day rushed in, shaking her whole body with a tearless breakdown. 

ChiChi pulled her toward the opulent bed at the center of the room, making her sit down on the embroidered covers.

“It’s all right, Bulma. You’ve been so brave…” she whispered, stroking her hair gently and embracing her once more.

Bulma let her friend cradle and soothe her trembling body until dusk, when the setting sun tinged the sky with a red, familiar hue. 

  
  


*

  
  


She was walking at his side on the outward walls of Sadala, the setting sun igniting her aquamarine hair with its orange and golden hue. She was resplendent as she turned to take his hand, her smile blinding and beaming. 

The breeze made some strands escape from her updo, and he reached over to brush the soft locks aside, caressing her cheek with a tenderness he didn’t know to possess. 

Something pulled at the corners of his mouth, warming his heart as she closed the distance for a sweet kiss. Time stilled in a fragment of perfection. Was it happiness? 

He clung to that sensation, basking in its sweet flavor, so different from the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. But darkness fell eventually, its black tentacles crawling along the edges of the beautiful vision.

“Look who’s defying death at every corner. You’re truly a Djinn, aren’t you?”

Vegeta emerged from the haze of his hallucinations with a start but refused to look up. 

He knew that voice. 

He knew it from his deepest nightmares, his harsher struggles, his worst days as a slave and a heartless general. He might be a demon, but Frieza was the Devil himself.

And when the Devil chose to show himself, you could know for sure the end was near.

The prince tried to straighten up, not wanting to die on his knees, like the prisoner he had been his entire life. 

He ignored the Emperor, fixing his gaze on the wall in front of him, and tried to recall one of his last memories of Bulma, her shining eyes, the sound of her voice and the warmth of her hands on his face. He would leave this world with a smile on his face, and the bastard couldn’t do a damn thing about it. 

But Frieza didn’t even attempt to hurt him. Instead, he paced placidly at his side, scrutinizing every blood puddle on the floor with unimpressed eyes. 

“You wouldn’t believe who came a callin’ today…” he spoke, after a while. “But surely you must have met her. She and her brilliance are renown to the world. Nearly as much as the Sacred Spheres she gifted me, in exchange for her life...”

Vegeta’s head jerked to the side, his eyes widening in panic.

“Princess Bulma… no, Queen Bulma is really something. A great mind behind a beautiful face. No wonder she managed to deceive even the great Demon Prince!”

Vegeta cursed himself for his involuntary display of weakness and looked away. 

Zarbon must have taken too much time to break him, and now the royal snake had stepped in to finish the job more quickly. 

Another bunch of lies, some more tortures. He could deal with it. But the Emperor didn’t stop his unnerving chat.

“I was sincerely tempted to end her life in front of you. You know, for old times’ sake…” Frieza said while something fell on the floor with a metallic sound.

He paced around him, but Vegeta couldn’t tear his eyes from the metal object the Emperor threw at his feet: it was his mother’s dagger.

“But I figured that knowing even your wife turned her back from you, must be especially excruciating. Isn’t it, my old friend?”

Vegeta closed his eyes, squeezing them shut, then reopened them. But the proof of her betrayal was still there, sharp and painful as the blade that shone in the dim light of the cell.

He was ready to call the Emperor’s bluff, unmask his lies, but his voice failed him. The dagger should have been at Bulma’s side, where he had last seen it, before his departure from the Sayan camp. 

If Frieza had it, then…

“Women… So disappointing, right?” the Emperor moaned with false empathy, a mere inch from his ear. “It takes but a mere defeat in battle, and they run to the enemy with your magical spheres, imploring and bargaining for their lives… You can’t even trust your own spouse nowadays!”

Vegeta found he couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t even think straight. 

It was impossible, it was a lie, he repeated it to himself over and over again. But unlike his hallucinations, the dagger was really there, defying his logic and everything he had faithfully held true.

His world crumbled, burying under its ruins every memory and vision, along with whatever was left of his damned heart. 

He had believed  _ her _ . He had fucking  _ trusted _ her, and now…

Vegeta tried to swallow, but rage and desperation choked him, filling his mouth with bile, grinding his teeth so hard his whole skull hurt.

He wished Frieza would dig that blasted blade in his heart, to end his pathetic existence once and for all. But the Emperor didn’t even attempt to hurt him, knowing the revelation had caused more damage than any beating or torture ever could.

The emperor watched him, basking in his agony, until deciding it was time to leave. But not before sparing him a last vicious smile from the entrance of the cell. 

“I’d like to continue this lovely chat, but I have a marriage to prepare. Maybe this time the bride will be trustworthy. After all, who’d want to die as the queen of some desert beggars, when she could live as the Empress of the known world?”

The loud click of the lock filled the silence and at that moment Vegeta knew with painstaking certainty that that door would not reopen again. 

  
  


*

The waiting was becoming unbearable. 

Bulma and ChiChi watched the sun disappear behind the great walls of the Capital, and the moon moving in the now dark sky, shining over the towers of the imperial palace. 

A sudden knock at the door finally set the plan in motion. 

Bulma stood, banning exhaustion and worries from her heart once more. 

“Your servants are here to assist your evening bath, your Highness,” one of the guards announced from the open door, as they let in two veiled women. 

As the door closed once again, Khale’s and Caulifla’s faces emerged from the fabric.

“Are we ready to begin?” asked ChiChi, as her features hardened suddenly. 

“The women are in position,” Caulifla whispered. “As we suspected, the king is kept in the dungeons. The guards had their relieves five minutes ago, so we have at least four hours to be out of there.”

“Echalotte intercepted Goku in the citadel, not long ago. He’s trying to find a way to enter the dungeons and meet us there,” Khale continued, handing Bulma a change of clothes, a tunic and a pair of loose pantaloons, more practical and comfortable than the fine dress she was wearing for her meeting with the Emperor. 

She thanked her and changed swiftly, allowing herself a little dose of hope. 

She had predicted their predicament perfectly. The almighty Emperor and his men hadn’t paid attention to a group of foreign servant women, leaving them free to wander the Palace and gather as much information as they could. 

As the royal dress and the unnecessary jewels dropped on the floor as the dead skin of a snake, Bulma found she could breathe again. A new determination warmed her body, as she got ready. She exchanged a confident look with ChiChi, nodding at her encouraging smile, and standing up. 

“My friends,” she said, her voice steady and full of hope. “I’m deeply grateful to be here with you. But this plan may cost us many lives, so I have to ask one last time: are you ready?”

ChiChi and Khale nodded, while Caulifla popped her knuckles, her lips curved in a feral grin. “I’m looking forward to tasting some Kholds’ blood…”

The bells rang from the near temple, as the quiet voice of the priest announced the beginning of the midnight prayers. It was time.

The four women covered their heads and faces with the veils and prepared for the battle, their daggers already hidden among the folds of their tunics. 

Khale and Caulifla went ahead, opening the door and launching forward to get rid of the two guards, slashing their throats silently.

They hid the corpses inside the royal bedroom, closing the door behind them as they fled. 

The small group of women moved among the majestic corridors and halls, deadly and silent as Death itself. 

In the darkness surrounding her, Bulma could only hear faint gasps and the sick sound of throats being cut, as Khale and Caulifla took care of every guard that had the misfortune of crossing their path. The soldiers met a quick and silent end, with no time to scream or alert the sentries. 

Outside, the other Sayan women were doing the same, to secure a safe passage for the Queen’s and the King’s escape. 

When the group finally reached the dungeons, the women staged an ambush for the two soldiers that guarded the entrance, waiting for the perfect moment to strike them both down in one swift move. Blood sprayed from their throat and Bulma couldn’t help but watch, almost hypnotized by so much gore. 

Her mind wandered, and she imagined what it would feel like, to deal in the same way with Frieza, terror in his wide eyes as life abandoned him and blood poured between her hands. Would her conscience suffer from his death? 

The sound of the falling body of the soldiers woke her from her reverie, their armors hitting the floor with a metallic clang that resounded deafening in the silence of the night. 

She and the women remained still, ears straining for any sound that could suggest someone was coming. When nothing came, Bulma and ChiChi entered the narrow corridors of the lower cellars, leaving the two Sayan women to stand guard.

They peeked in every cell, searching for the one imprisoning their King until ChiChi stifled a gasp and took her arm. He was there. 

Bulma didn’t waste another second, working right away to pick the lock of the heavy door. When it finally creaked open, she had to bite hard on the inside of her mouth not to break into tears. 

Vegeta was there, but the joy of seeing him after so much time was overshadowed by deep anguish for his state. 

The prince was passed out and feverish, his body kept upward only by the chains that pulled at his ruined wrists. Blood and soot were everywhere, his skin a cruel canvas of new scars and harsh wounds, some of them still oozing blood.

Bulma choked a sob and was instantly at his side, whispering his name with a broken voice she couldn’t recognize. Her fingers trembled as she worked to pick the locks of his shackles and set him free.

“Goku should be near. I’ll be at the door, waiting for him. Please, Bulma, be quick,” ChiChi whispered, leaving to monitor the still void corridor of the dungeons.

Bulma worked as fast as she could, calling Vegeta’s name over and over to wake him up.

When the chains cracked open, the prince’s dead weight crumbled on her waiting arms.

“I’m here… It will be alright. Please, Vegeta, wake up…” she whispered, cradling his broken body between her arms and running her trembling finger through his damp hair. 

The prince’s skin was sweaty and hot, his breath labored. She could feel his blood dampening the front of her tunic. 

He didn’t have much time left. They had to get away from there and fast. 

Vegeta finally stirred, a groan ripping from his parched lips.

Bulma tried to get up, ready to support him, but she stumbled on something metallic. 

Her gaze reflexively dropped on the floor, and she spotted something shiny and sharp: her dagger, the one Vegeta gave her. 

She wondered absentmindedly how had it gotten there. As the man between her arms slowly opened his eyes, Bulma recalled her confrontation with Frieza in the Throne room. She had dropped the dagger there and then… 

She gasped in horror.  _ No... _

Realization hit her hard, like a slap on the face, but she hadn’t the time to dwell on it because a pair of dark eyes focused finally on her. 

They were void, inhuman and charged with a deep hatred that made her spine crack with chills. 

As the Djinn sneered at her, Bulma felt her heart drop in her stomach. 

Before she could open her mouth, Vegeta’s hands closed on her throat, their grip powerful and unfaltering despite his injuries. 

His fingers tightened, digging in the frail skin of her neck, making her choke painfully as she struggled to take in air.  

As seconds passed Bulma watched with desperate horror the face of the man she thought to know so well. 

His severe profile was hard as a stone, his once gentle lips frozen in a cruel snarl, the perfect portrait of the Demon he claimed to be, as his hands robbed her of air and life.

Darkness started creeping at the sides of her view, as Bulma made one last and desperate attempt to loosen his grip, digging her nails in his skin, kicking and pushing without success.

A single tear slid from the corner of her eyes, as she realized she was going to die by the hand of the man she had risked everything to save. The man she had trusted with her life and so much more… 

But there was no trace of her Vegeta in the black void of the eyes she was drowning in. 

Suddenly, with a blurred movement on her peripheral and a loud smack, the prince’s grip on her throat was gone, as well as his weight from her. 

Bulma greedily gulped the stale air of the cell, her lungs and throat burning, as she tried to bring into focus the shadow looming above her.

“Bulma… Bulma! Are you alright?”

Goku’s concerned eyes were the first thing she recognized, in the darkness of the cell. 

The Sayan helped her stand, supporting her still trembling form with care, but his eyes didn’t leave Vegeta, once again passed out after his violent punch.

“I thought he… He was going to kill you!” whispered Goku, a rage she hadn’t ever seen on his face choking his words. “What the hell is going on?”

“Frieza tricked him…” Bulma tried to explain, despite the coarseness of her voice.

She took another deep breath, before making a stumbling step towards the unconscious prince.  

Goku took her hand, holding her back, his worried eyes still fixed on the limp body of the man he considered his King.  

“Goku, it’s alright,” she tried again, covering his hand with her own. 

She hoped he couldn’t feel her trembling. 

“We’ll deal with this mess later. We have to leave, now!”

She could see doubts and confusion in her friend’s eyes, but the Sayan finally nodded, crouching to collect Vegeta, and hoist his limp form on his shoulders. 

As he darted towards the door, Bulma lingered one moment more, her eyes on the Sayan dagger, abandoned on the floor. Both a gift and her death sentence at the same time. 

She couldn’t bring herself to pick it up. That blade had already taken a Queen’s life, years ago. Was it her turn, now? 

The sound of Goku’s steps startled her and Bulma scolded herself for wasting so much time over nonsense. She needed a weapon anyway, she told herself, picking up the dagger and wrapping her veil around her neck and head, as she ran behind her friend in the darkness. 

The pair reached ChiChi at the other end of the narrow corridor, where a small group of Sayan women had already gathered waiting for them. 

ChiChi eyed the forecourt that opened in front of them, waiting for the go-ahead from another Sayan woman, probably perched on the outer wall of the palace. 

A light flickered in the darkness three times: it was the signal. 

The group ran as fast and quietly as they could towards the opposite side of the yard, to the stables. 

They had managed to maintain their secrecy until that moment, but the next step was crucial. Opening the great gates of the palace would necessarily alert the guards, so a platoon of women had to stay behind and fight with all their might to delay the imperial soldiers, while the Queen and another group raced towards freedom. 

When they reached the stables, the Sayan women there had already prepared the horses. 

As the final checks were made, Bulma found a cover and wrapped it around Vegeta’s body, with Goku’s help. Then she got on the horse Khale handed her, reaching out for her husband.

“I’ll carry him,” she told Goku, ignoring his uncertain look. “If we’re attacked you must be able to fight. It will give me time to escape if all hell breaks loose.”

Her friend nodded, won by her argument, and helped her to hoist the prince’s body on the horse, securing him at the saddle while Bulma braced her arms around him. 

As soon as everyone was ready, Bulma positioned herself in front of the main doors of the stables, Goku and ChiChi at her sides. 

She took a deep breath and nodded to the woman standing beside the entrance. 

As the double doors opened, the Queen and her entourage stormed out of the building, the sounds of the horses’ hooves on the paved yard resonating in the night. 

The group lunged with determination towards the entrance of the palace, where a pair of Sayan women were already moving the cogs to open the massive portal. 

With the precision of a well-oiled machine, it opened at their passage, and Bulma and her group were out of the palace in blur, before any guards or soldier could even understand what was going on. 

As she flew, followed by her small battalion, Bulma could hear the whistling sound of the arrows of the Sayan women perched on the outer walls of the palace, aimed at the soldiers emerging from their quarters with messy and panicked movements. 

They rode through the citadel in haste, following the same route her carriage had used at her arrival. They had to reach the town’s borders before the news of their escape spread through the streets of the Capital and the soldiers could block their only escape route: the gates of the Khold City. 

Alleys and back roads flew at her peripheral, blurred by speed and darkness, as her own ragged breathing was deafening in the silence.

But as they reached their destination, she could already hear the echoes of the women left behind, riding in the back and followed by the Imperial Army. 

“They’re coming,” she heard Goku shout behind her, as he unsheathed his sword. 

As they made the last turn, Bulma was greeted by a wonderful and welcomed sight. 

In front of them stood the main gates of the city, still open. But in the dim moonlight, she could already see a few sentries scurrying around and lighting their torches, alerted by the approaching battle sounds and screams. 

“Run Bulma, run as fast as you can and don’t look back,” Goku shouted one last time, spurning his horse and getting past her, launching himself on the soldiers in front of them. “Outside you’ll find…”

She couldn’t hear the end of the sentence, as ChiChi and the other women followed him, weapons drawn and their gazes set in silent and lethal determination.

Bulma did as she was told, inciting her stallion over and over, while squeezing Vegeta’s body with all her force not to let him fall. 

The Sayans barged on the still confused soldiers at the gates with the force of a sand storm. She got through the battle with ease, the sentries too stunned and unprepared by the sudden assault to put up any valuable resistance. 

The gates hadn’t even begun to close when she rode through them, passing under the great arch that signaled the entrance of the Khold Capital. 

The desert opened its welcoming arms all around her, the horizon free and vast in front of the escaping Queen. 

As Bulma rode through the great expanse of sand without looking back, she prayed for her friends, hoping they would make it out of the city alive. 

Suddenly, among the moonlit dunes, she saw the looming figure of a battalion approaching her. 

She couldn’t make out any insignia, the horsemen still appearing as dark silhouettes in the distance. But the sound of their riding was louder by the second, and Bulma soon realized the battalion was closing like a clamp on her. 

She panicked, spurning her horse faster and trying to lose them but it was useless. 

She didn’t dare to look back, Goku and the women still too far behind to help. 

As she tried to dodge the nearest group of unknown soldiers, her horse jerked sideways, rearing up in panic. Bulma was thrown down, as well as Vegeta, his body rolling on the sand beside hers.

As she struggled to get up and protect her prince, the soldiers closed the circle, surrounding her. 

They were dressed in black, their faces covered by turbans, standing above her and raising straight up out of the sea of dunes, lit by the first light of the rising sun. 

“Stand back!” she screamed, putting herself between them and the prince’s still unconscious body. She drew her dagger, pointing it towards the men looming on her from every side. 

“You won’t have him,” she roared, ready for battle.

A tall figure emerged from the dark mass of soldiers, looking her straight in the eyes.

“I beg to differ, my Lady...”

*

Pain and darkness. It was all he could feel, the loyal companions of his life of struggles. 

But the soft and cool soil under his fingers resembled so much the sand of the desert, so different from the dirty and unforgiving floor of his cell. 

Light breached the swollen barrier of his eyelids, nearly blinding him.

A silhouette stood out in front of him, as a human shield against the world. 

It was a woman, her dagger drawn and her poise feral and proud, like a lioness protecting her cub. 

He thought about his mother, but the blue strands of hair escaping from her veil told a different story, flooding his mind and his whole being with an inexplicable relief. 

Then darkness claimed him again, and he could see or feel no more.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I began 2019 learning something new: I suck at writing battle scenes. And that’s wonderful given the great war we have ahead… *facepalm*  
> As for the cliffhanger… sorry, not sorry. :P
> 
> A more serious note: even if I wrote about Vegeta attacking Bulma, I don’t condone violence against women. It bothered me a lot, while I was writing that scene, to be honest, and I wondered if I should continue with this idea. But I really wanted to re-create parallelism with one of the best DBZ arches in my opinion: the Majin Buu arch. More precisely, the part when Majin Vegeta shoots and kills thousands of people, destroying a whole section of the stadium, knowing very well his own wife was there.   
> For me, that incident (and what followed) was a great hiatus in Vegeta’s character development, a sudden betrayal led by a misguiding intervention, but a betrayal nonetheless. In the end, it represented a great obstacle he and Bulma had to overcome to deepen their relationship. It was something I wanted to include in this fic. 
> 
> That said, thank you again for your wonderful comments and for the precious and invaluable work of ETNRL4L, who beta-read this chapter and the previous ones.


	18. Defeated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He couldn’t move a finger nor get up from the dirt. For the first time in his life, Vegeta felt utterly and definitely defeated. 
> 
> Soundtrack: “Harjaiyaan”, by Nandini Srikar, from the movie “Queen”; “Bhare neina” by Nandini Srikar from the movie “Ra One”

 

 

_ “ _ _ This red-colored love, this sorrowful love _

_ This flawed love, this adversary-like love _

_ It made you an enemy in such a way _

_ I haven’t been the same since then _

_ Should I change my name, should I forget yours _

_ My name is love, your name is love _ _ ” _

 

( _ “Laal ishq” _ , by  Sanjay Leela Banshali )

 

 

Her lips were already blue, opening and closing in soundless struggle. 

Bones cracked under his fingers as blue eyes widened further, red veins splintering at their angles, while tears spilled unchecked. The feel of her nails clawing at his flesh was a mere dull and distant pain. It was nothing compared to the desperate aching tearing at his chest, lungs afire as if he was the one not breathing properly. Rage choked him but he couldn’t remember the reason behind that unmitigated hate, nor the name of the pitiful woman meeting death by his hands. 

He thought he recalled her strange hair color. A vague mirage of her sleeping uncomfortably at his bedside and tending to his wounds for days and nights sat at the very edge of his hazy mind. 

It didn’t matter anymore.

Suddenly, as her irises disappeared in the void white of her eyes and life abandoned her, he remembered. 

She was Bulma.  _ His _ Bulma. 

And the Djinn had just killed her. 

He rose on unsteady legs, recoiling from the lifeless body.

No, not the Djinn, Vegeta reasoned, spying his distorted reflection in the blood pooling at his feet. The hand that had taken her life was his own.

He had killed her.  _ He  _ was the murderer.

Vegeta struggled to emerge from the painful haze of his slumber, almost retching at the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. 

Everything hurt, and his heart threatened to burst his ribcage with every rapid beat, as he worked to reconcile his surrounding. The tattered red fabric cascading above him brought to mind reminded one of the tents his nomadic people wove for refuge from the elements.  

He felt dizzy, his head spinning from the effort of recalling recent events and parsing reality from the hazy chaos of his dreams. 

“Bulma…” he called, his voice coming out as a feeble, hoarse whisper.  

“She's not here,” said a voice from his right. “I sent her to rest a bit. She had tended to your wounds relentlessly for the last week. I was worried she might get sick…”

He knew that voice, so similar to his father’s but with a different, more easy-going tilt. He turned and tried to bring into focus the tall figure flanking his recasting place.

His companion wore a black tunic, with a burgundy turban hanging in disarray about his neck, leaving his peculiar hair free to sprout untamed in all directions: the spitting image of a younger idiot he knew so well.

“Bardock...” Vegeta rasped tiredly. 

The man smirked, the big scar along his cheek crinkling with mirth and relief. 

“Long time no see, nephew...” he said, bringing his fist to his heart in the traditional greeting.

Doing his best to ignore the dull ache coursing through his body, the prince tried to get up, his limbs stiff and covered in bandages. A painful pang stabbed at the right of his torso, the dressing there already stained with fresh blood, and he winced in spite of himself.  

“Don't move, for fuck’s sake!” warned his uncle, his voice suddenly stern. “If you start bleeding again your wife will have my head.” 

Vegeta was secretly relieved to oblige, letting his weight fall once again on the covers.

The movement made his head spin, as he tried to collect his nebulous memories, once more trying to recall his most recent memories. 

“What happened? Where...”

Bardock cut him short, his palms rising reassuringly. 

“Calm down, you’re in your tent, back at the Sayan camp. Lady Bulma had it relocated to the Thorgal Canyon, while she was coming to your rescue. And let me tell you, that woman is really something…”

Bardock went on and on, his usual stern and unimpressed attitude replaced by admiration and awe, as he told him how brilliantly Bulma had tricked the Emperor with the false Dragon Spheres to free him of his imprisonment, falling back solely on help from Goku and a little battalion of Sayan women. 

Vegeta managed to keep up with his uncle’s tale, as he tried to distinguish reality from the feverish hallucinations and dreams that had accompanied him during the never-ending weeks suffered in Frieza’s dungeons.

“I have to admit,” Bardock concluded, shaking his head in mute disbelief. “I was never much for your taste in women, but the bride you chose is a true force of nature. Brave, clever and a true leader. She reminds me of my Ghine…” 

“She’s not…” Vegeta interjected, swallowing a surge of nausea, as the sudden image of her lifeless body swam before his eyes. 

Bardock chuckled, oblivious of his inner struggles. 

“I know, I know she’s not truly your wife…I was just teasing you. She and my son explained to me everything about your secret deal with the Capsalis kingdom. Clever. Although it’s a pity, if you ask me,” he added, as his gaze softened imperceptibly. “But I wasn’t expecting anything less from my brother…”

Before his uncle could dwell on his own sorrowful memories, Vegeta cleared his throat and voiced the question that had tormented him for over a month. 

"Bardock, what happened with my father? How come you didn't show up when he needed you? Where the hell were you?”

The Sayan shook his head with melancholy, his brows furrowed.

"I received his message. But I couldn't leave my clan unguarded. The Imperial Army was everywhere and I couldn't risk the lives of my people. I tried to warn your father to stay put, to beware the increasing imperial raids, but my messenger was intercepted and killed. I found his corpse many weeks later when I heard the news of the King's death..."

His calloused hands clenched and unclenched on the hem of his tattered tunic, the only visible sign of his restlessness.

"As soon as I managed to move the camp and my clan to a safer place, I got moving with my men to support you. But once again I was too late. We were halfway to your camp when Goku intercepted us, while he was heading to the Khold Palace to reach the Queen. So we changed course and followed. At least, we were able to help, this time..."

_ Help _ , Vegeta reasoned, ruefully. Help in rescuing the Lost Prince, once again, after another shameful failure. 

The bitter tang of humiliation filled his mouth. How many times was he to endure his own inadequacy? How many failures, how many defeats, would it take for his people to finally see the unworthiness of their leader?

He resented Kakarott for not following his orders, for not putting an end to his miserable life when he had the chance. For letting the woman risk her and his people’s lives executing that reckless stunt to bring back a misguided, pathetic relic of a wanna-be king, whose only talent was to disappoint them all, over and over again.

Vegeta struggled to breathe, his fists clenched so hard they trembled, nails digging in his flesh as a painful reminder. 

Bardock shifted uncomfortably at his side, probably sensing his distress.

“You look like shit. I’ll call lady Bulma, she would know what to do…”

_ Go away _ , Vegeta implored silently. He didn’t need any one of them, their pity, the cautious kindness with which they treated him, as if he was a rabid and wounded animal.

When Bardock finally left the tent, he closed his eyes, doing his best to ignore their burning.

He wanted to be left alone, but soon after his uncle’s departure, the curtain shrouding the entrance of the tent swept aside and she appeared.

Bulma. 

He looked intently at her, but she pointedly averted his gaze, and paused for a brief moment at the threshold, stiff and unsure. Her fingers tormented the hem of her veil, wrapped loosely around her neck and shoulders like a shawl. 

Vegeta didn’t know what to say or what to do with the confusing jumble of raw emotions that flooded through him, swaying from rage to gratitude and back, paired with the ever-present shame and relief to see her alive and unharmed. 

He remained silent, as she slowly closed the distance between them, one nervous step after another.

Her lips opened and closed a couple of times until she finally forced her voice to work.

“I’m glad you finally woke up. I need to change your bandages…”

He nodded stiffly, but she had already gotten to work without waiting for his response. When the woman settled at the edge of his bed, helping him to sit up to unwrap and change the bandages that covered his torso, the electric contact between their skin gave him the answer he was waiting for. She was real, not one of his hallucinations.

Bulma worked silently, still refusing to meet his gaze, but her brows furrowed as she uncovered the still tender wound on his side, blood oozing from the poorly healed gash that ran from his hipbone to his ribs.

He took the opportunity of her closeness to study her, piecing together the real woman in front of him with the memories of her he had replayed over and over in his mind during his imprisonment. 

She looked tired, her eyes puffy and red, with dark circles cradling them. There was no trace of her usual intricate and perfect hairdos. Her blue mane was in a loose bun from which many strands escaped.

A part of him worried about her rumpled appearance, even as his chest constricted traitorously with the secret joy of seeing her again. But the humiliation and rage still poisoning his veins chocked that naive feeling, turning him into hard and silent stone. 

She had disobeyed him, risking everything for an irascible and useless purpose.

Like Kakarott, who had robbed him of a glorious death on the battlefield, her careless stunt had humiliated him in a way he couldn’t compartmentalize.

His hands balled into fists, knuckles white and straining around the red covers.

“I told you to stay away,” he managed to spit out through clenched teeth. “To take the spheres and hide with my people, to disappear.” 

She didn’t look up, but her features hardened, and her lips tightened to a thin line.

“That’s what I did. Frieza will never find us in this canyon…” she answered, but Vegeta didn’t let her finish. 

“No, you didn’t. You endangered yourself and those women, waltzing right into the enemy’s den!”

His voice trembled in rage, but she simply concentrated on her task, tightening the bandages with more force than necessary.

“You risked everything and endangered everyone’s lives, the spheres too,” he continued, between gritted teeth. “And for what? Captured or not, I was defeated on the battlefield. I could do more good dead than alive, anyway…”

“I couldn’t let you die there,” she interrupted him. Her voice was somehow even, but her hands balled into fists as they retreated from his bandaged skin.

“Why?” he seethed. “I’m a soldier, I was prepared to face an honorable death on the battlefield. Instead, you and Kakarott cheated me of that!” 

He unconsciously reached out for her, pausing in confusion when she flinched imperceptibly. 

“I couldn’t let you die there,” she repeated without looking at him, but this time her voice shook slightly.

“I’d rather been dead than suffer such shame and dishonor!” he roared, and as soon as those words had left his mouth, her body jerked and rose as if struck by lightning.  

“Then has it all been for nothing?” she exploded, tearing the veil away and exposing her neck to his widening eyes. “Has _ this _ too been for nothing?”

The sight hit him violently, like a punch to the gut, hurting even more than his wounds.

Her neck was dotted with bruises, the skin still blue and tender. Purple, swollen stripes ran along her throat, in a familiar shape that resembled...

It all came back to him at once.

The dagger. Frieza’s words. His rage. 

Her panicked eyes as his hand closed about her throat, her nails scratching helplessly at his unyielding arms, but he wouldn’t stop, couldn’t stop, not after her betrayal, blinded by the Emperor’s lies.

It hadn't been a dream. It had been...  _ him _ .

When his horrified gaze finally met hers he found only a valley of ice.

“It would’ve been better if I was dead too, right?” she said, poison dripping from her beautiful lips. “Without me, Frieza would never find all the Spheres. So why don’t you finish what you started?”

Vegeta tried to get up, to say something, but strength and voice abandoned him, his body suddenly powerless and trembling in the face of her righteous rage and overwhelming sorrow. 

“Oh, but you have done worse,” she continued in a broken whisper. 

“You chose to believe Frieza, instead of me. You thought me capable of betraying you. How dare you,” she added, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. “How _ dare  _ you think so low of me? After all the shit we've been through, after I shed tears for your father, for  _ you _ , after the challenges we met together ... I _ trusted _ you! I always had!”

Bulma was screaming now, her raw pain hitting him where it hurt the most, in a way even Frieza’s tortures never could. 

“Even if we fought, even when you were just a prick, I never doubted you. I swore to protect the spheres and your people, and I gave you so much more... But it took you  _ nothing _ to question my loyalty, to judge me a traitor and turn your back at me. And you wanna know why?”

She turned, tears finally escaping the prison of her eyelashes and staining her cheeks, even if she wiped them away angrily.

“You gave up, Vegeta. You gave up even before the battle started. You gave up on Goku, on your people, on me… You were ready to leave this world in a glorious and purposeless death, to leave  _ me _ behind with nothing more than regrets and ‘what if’s’ to torment me for the rest of my days, waiting in fear for Frieza to inevitably find me and your people. That's not the king the Sayans deserve. That's not what  _ I  _ deserve!”

With those final words, Bulma bent over to retrieve her veil and stormed out of the tent without looking back. 

When the fluttering curtain stilled its movement, Vegeta found himself alone in the deafening silence of the tent, his inner demons his only company.

His gaze fell to his fingers, rigid and clawing at the cover on his lap. He forced his trembling hands open, looking at his upturned palms for a long time in search of an answer that never came. After some time, the prince returned to his prone position, wincing at the throbbing ache of his body. The pain was unbearable, but it came from a place far deeper than the wounds on his flesh.

 

*

 

She couldn’t breathe, throat scorched and lungs already screaming in search of air like that night in the Khold dungeons. She had to get out of there. 

Bulma ran in wild haste to distance herself from the royal tent, her sobs shaking her whole body. 

She angrily wiped away the tears still running down her face. Vegeta didn’t deserve them. She was done crying for him.

The relief that had washed over her when Bardock had announced the prince’s awakening was long gone, leaving a deep sense of sorrow and helplessness.

But she couldn’t afford the luxury to dwell on it. She had work to do, preparations for what awaited them, and then…

In her haste to leave, Bulma ran into a solid and hard body, the impact nearly making her stumble. 

“Easy there, my Lady!”

Bardock’s hands gently supported her, as she tried to recompose herself, mumbling unintelligible excuses.

His figure was still imposing and dark, as it had been more than a week ago when he and his men had tracked her down during her escape from the Khold Capital. 

But under that intimidating and tough appearance, Bardock shared with his youngest son a kind soul and a benevolent heart. 

She had grown to know him those last few days, his reassuring presence a constant those long nights passed watching over the feverish prince, while she patched his broken body until exhaustion took over and she hadn’t any force left to dwell over her own close encounter with death. 

The big X-shaped scar that cowled the entire expanse of his cheek curved along his lips, in a rare and crooked smile. 

“I was waiting for you. I wanted to discuss…”

The general stopped mid-sentence, and when his eyes dropped to her neck. Bulma realized her veil was still in her hand. 

She quickly covered her bruises, wondering how much he knew about the incident that took place in the Khold’s cell. 

She had tried to keep it secret, not wanting to further strain relations between the Sayans and their newfound king, but maybe Goku had spilled the beans to his father and wife. 

She was so lost in her thoughts that the touch of Bardock’s hand on her shoulder made her jump. But when she dared to cross the general’s gaze, she didn’t find any trace of pity in his dark eyes, only a deep and comforting understanding. 

“My Lady,” he said, his voice softening in a way that reminded her of Goku. He dropped to one knee on the sand, bowing and taking her hand in his bigger one.  

“I swear on the mighty Ozaru, every Sayan sword is and forever will be at your service. But if you don’t feel safe anymore, or if you’re worried about your people back home… I will understand if you decide to go and leave this mess behind. You have done more than enough for us, and the Sayans will be forever grateful for your help and loyalty to the royal family…”

Bulma watched him, considering the generosity of this out he extended, her heart full of yearning.

She felt so alone, so lost and foreign. She missed home so much.

But a stronger force inside her strained and rebelled against those thoughts, tying her heart to that unforgiving land where her equally ruthless prince belonged. 

Bulma shook her head, while a stubborn smile found its way on her lips. 

“I appreciate your offer, my Lord. But I promised to help you find the spheres and protect the Sayan tribe. My duty will not be fulfilled until the last orb lies in our hands, and the world is free from the Emperor’s reign of terror.”

Bardock observed her for a long time, not fooled by her impeccably diplomatic answer, but nodded and got up anyway.

“Did you managed to tell Vegeta about the last sphere and our little… project?”

She shook her head, not wanting to recall the recent confrontation with the prince. 

“No, it’s better to inform him later, when he is more… stable.”

Bardock nodded again, getting down to business as he accompanied her to her destination. 

“The messengers came back today. The other clans are in motion and will fight with us, a couple of allies, as well. No news from the Namaqians. I don’t even know if my man managed to find them…”

“Don’t worry,” Bulma said, “I’m sure they will be on our side when the time comes. And that day is near...”

Bardock stopped in his tracks, his big hand hovering on her shoulder. 

When she turned and met his serious gaze, he asked, “How can you be so sure?”

Bulma let her eyes wander a few steps ahead of them to the cave she and the Sayans had discovered some months ago on their quest for the first spheres. It had been converted to a furnace, where she had spent every spare moment when not at the prince’s bedside the last several days. 

The familiar scent of burning coals and metal filled her lungs, as Bulma took a deep breath. The armors were almost done, and she had still a few tricks hidden up her sleeve. 

Her smile widened, and Bulma let whatever energy that kept her whole and sane the last few days fill every corner of her being, like a healing balm. 

“Because there’s always hope.” 

 

*

 

Anger was eating him up from the inside, making him restless and nauseous. 

He needed to release some of his frustrations, and he knew exactly how.

Getting out of the bed hadn’t been simple, and every fiber of his being hurt like a bitch as Vegeta limped through the camp, ignoring the questioning stares of his people.

He followed the distant echoes of a spar, the clashing of wood and metal and, above all, the voice of his rival.

Vegeta found him in a little clearing turned battle arena. Kakarott was training with a boy, explaining to him how to correctly wield his wooden sword.

When their gaze met, the younger Sayan did something odd. His serious gaze lingered on the prince for just a second, then he continued with his lesson as if he wasn’t even there.

Vegeta growled and grabbed the nearest sword he found among the many weapons scattered around as training props.

“Kakarott, get ready and take your stance. Now!” he ordered, his hand clutching the sword so forcefully, his knuckles went white.

Kakarott watched him again, his eyes so dark and serious that for a moment, the prince didn’t recognize the jolly idiot he was accustomed to.

“No,” he said after a while, his tone final.

Vegeta felt the bile nearly choking him. How dare the peon refuse a direct order?

He ignored the pangs of pain slicing through his flesh, launching himself directly at Kakarott.

He had barely the time to push the boy away before their swords clashed together. 

“You coward…” Vegeta roared, attacking him with all the viciousness and force he could muster. 

He tried to hit him, blow after blow, but Kakarott merely dodged and diverted his lethal sweeps, not bothering with a counterstrike.

That enraged Vegeta even more.

“Fight seriously, you asshole!” he growled as his rival warded off another furious but unfruitful blow from his sword.

“I don’t fight with wounded people,” Kakarott said, far too calmly.

Vegeta didn’t even pause to breathe, attacking again and again, ignoring the pain, the straining of his limbs and the blood running down his wounded side.

“You’re a coward,” he rasped, the bitter taste of venom filling his mouth. “A spineless idiot who didn’t have the balls to follow his commander’s orders! You didn’t take my life when I asked you to, but I’ll gladly have yours as compensation!”

Once again Kakarott blocked his blows without breaking so much as a sweat.

“I promised Bulma I’d bring you back alive,” he retorted, finally answering his attacks with his own blow. Vegeta struggled to keep up with his sudden change of rhythm, but he refused to give in. 

Fury took control of his body and his mouth as he asked, “You chose to listen to a foreign woman instead of your own king?”

Their roles suddenly reversed, and Vegeta found himself on the defensive, staggering under the force of his rival’s strikes.

"YOU'RE NO ONE'S KING!" Kakarott roared.

His words hit Vegeta before the fist, the blow striking his jaw with an unnatural force. The swords went flying as his opponent managed to tackle him to the ground.

Kakarott was on him like a fury, hands clamped on the tattered collar of his tunic. 

"Especially not mine."

His voice came through gritted teeth and his eyes were colder than Vegeta had ever seen them. The prince tried to hit him but Kakarott simply swatted his fist away as if it was an annoying fly. The hand clutching at the front of his tunic tightened and rattled him, as the younger Sayan spoke again, his voice trembling in rage.

“I’m used to not having your trust, I understand it. But Bulma…. She sacrificed everything to be here, to help us and save you! And you… How could you hurt her like that? How could you?” 

He saw his rival's arm move from his peripheral, the clenched fist aimed at his already bruised cheek, but before he could make an impact, a voice echoed through the arena. 

“Goku, stop!”

Kakarott’s hand paralyzed a mere inch from his face. Vegeta could feel his whole body tremble with the effort to hold back, as Bulma’s voice had ordered.

She was quickly beside them, her hand landing gently on his rival’s shoulder and a sudden pang of jealousy nearly choked him. Once again she avoided his gaze at all cost. 

“Please, let him go…” Bulma whispered, instead. 

After a while, Kakarott breathed through his nose and complied with a nod.

His rival straightened and spat on the ground, turning and leaving without sparing his prince a glance. 

Vegeta vaguely felt Bulma at his side, checking his injuries, but he couldn’t move a finger nor get up from the dirt. For the first time in his life, Vegeta felt utterly and definitively defeated. 

 

*

 

Bulma stretched her neck and rolled her stiff shoulder blades, suppressing a groan. Sleeping on the unforgiving carpets of the royal tent again wasn’t as comfortable as she remembered. 

She eyed her sketched project once more, checking the progress of her creation as a group of Sayans worked with hammers, nails and many planks of wood, following her directions.

The woman sighed, hoping her ideas would work and her calculations could translate into a useful weapon. She was so absorbed in her musing, that she didn’t hear her sister-in-law approach. 

“Tired?” ChiChi asked as her fingers dug into the painful knot at the small of her back that kept her awake at night. 

“Not so much,” Bulma lied between gritted teeth, trying not to melt right there in the middle of the building site, in front of every Sayan in camp. ChiChi smiled knowingly.

“Another caravan of jewels and gold is leaving right now,” the Sayan woman reported while continuing her torturous and equally wonderful magic on her aching muscles and joints. “Do we need something more, other than more wood and iron?”

“Yes. Potassium nitrate, brimstone and a lot of charcoal. Also known as Black Powder,” she added as a response to ChiChi’s questioning stare. “It’s a new invention, innovated by the peoples of the Far East. I read a lot about it. I think I’ll be able to replicate it for my new project... Or at least, I hope so.”

ChiChi smiled, letting her hand rest reassuringly on her shoulder. “If there’s someone in the whole world capable of creating such wonders, it’s you.”

She watched her sister-in-law leave to pass the new orders to the wagonmaster, almost ready for departure. The jewels and piece of gold she and Vegeta had found in the outlaw’s den so long ago, had been a true blessing from heaven, and now all those precious trinkets and stolen art pieces were being used to barter with nearby villages for supplies, materials, and weapons. Everything they needed to prepare for the forthcoming battle. 

Speaking of which… For how much she had tried to delay that crucial moment, she needed to inform Vegeta about her recent discoveries and the plan she, Bardock and Goku had come up with.

The General was waiting for her in the Royal tent, so she gave the last instructions to the workers and left.

The atmosphere in the tent wasn’t different from that morning she had hurriedly changed Vegeta’s bandages, wanting nothing than to leave that suffocating aura behind her.

The prince was awake and had somehow managed to sit up, his back reclined stiffly on the cushions. 

Considering the stunt he'd pulled some days before had managed to hinder his recovery considerably, his condition was marginally better. However, the deep wound at his side was taking longer than expected to heal properly. 

Bardock smiled at her and she nodded in acknowledgment, taking a seat in a chair beside him.

“As I was telling you before,” the general said, speaking to Vegeta, “it’s for the best if you’re informed about the last events that took place while you were, ah… recovering.”

“Spill it out,” the prince said, his voice strained with irritation. Bulma’s brows furrowed. He was acting as if she wasn’t there, at all. 

“The last sphere is in Sadala,” she interjected, going straight to the point.

“I was able to discover its presence while we were coming back from the Khold Capital. It’s too far from here and the previous location of our camp, so that’s probably why my compass wasn’t able to detect its signal…”

For a split moment, Vegeta’s eyes met hers and she caught a glimpse of something shining in their depths. She thought she saw a trace of hope, the sudden flash of pure and unadulterated excitement.

But the moment was fleeting and his gaze dropped once more, his severe demeanor returning to a bitter grimace.

Bardock cleared his voice, probably sensing the invisible tension between them.  

“In our opinion, our best chance is to stage a surprise attack at our ancient capital, which is now used as a resupply base for the Imperial Army. Many of our allies have already agreed to take part in the expedition, sending their reinforcements, especially after your successful escape from the Khold capital…”

She could see a vein twitch on Vegeta’s forehead, his temper visibly flaring. 

Let him be cranky as it pleased him, she scoffed to herself. Even if bringing him back had been a mistake, her plan had served more than well in convincing their unsure allies of the Sayans’ chances against the Emperor. Now the Sayans had her and her genius.

“With the help of Lady Bulma, we are upgrading our Army’s equipment and arsenal, reinforcing our numbers and gathering any Sayan tribe willing to fight alongside you. We will be ready to make our move in a month. In the meantime, we hope you will be fully recovered to guide our Army in battle, as the King of all Sayans…”

Vegeta snorted.

“And you made that decision without consulting me…”

“You were unconscious,” Bulma interrupted him, her voice rising slightly in irritation. “Your wounds so severe we didn’t even know if you’d survive. And we had to make our choice quickly.”

She searched for his eyes, but Vegeta avoided her gaze once more. 

“We don’t have much time before Frieza realizes one of the spheres is already in his hands… while the other six are mere baubles,” she added between gritted teeth.

After a while, the prince sighed, his whole body deflating as if he was worn out, utterly spent and drained.

It made her traitorous heart clench in her chest. 

“And what will you do if you manage to gather all the seven spheres?” he asked, his eyes still low, glued to the intricate threading of his covers.    
Bulma gathered all her courage and stood, closing the distance to the prince until he had no choice but to meet her gaze. Her words were steady and sure, final.

“We’ll destroy them.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After 17 chapters, finally, BARDOCK ARRIVES!   
> I really wanted to write about Goku’s father and after seeing the new movie I literally couldn’t wait to introduce him to all of you. Even if he took his sweet time to make his big entrance... -.-
> 
> Speaking about new characters…  
> It’s somehow strange to write about Angry!Goku, but I really wanted to give him a chance to be something more than a jolly fighter who laugh all the time and nothing more. I’m not a fan of the simple and unidimensional way he is often portrayed (especially in the anime), and in my opinion, there have to be moments of anger and disappointment, even for someone like him. I was curious about what would he make and say in such circumstances.
> 
> This is the case with Depressed!Vegeta.   
> You have to hit rock bottom before you can rise up. I think Vegeta’s whole character development follow this rule, especially in the Buu/Cell arc, and I wanted to stick to that cathartic process because it’s what I admire him for.   
> I hope I was able to express all the stages of his fall from grace: shame, self-deprecation, anger at himself and at the world. In the end, there’s sorrow, but I’ll leave to Bulma the taxing task of taking him by the hand and guide the prince out of his tunnel, towards the light. 
> 
> I used the Post-Traumatic Shock symptoms as a reference for both Bulma's and Vegeta's behaviors, to better portrait their inner struggles: the simultaneous need and repulsion for touches, the strange bond developing between people that shared the same traumatic experience, and finally the breakdown. I won’t lie: it was hard and scary and uncomfortable to write about it. But I owed them a true reconciliation, the one I had always wondered about after the end of the Buu/Cell arc. We'll see how it will work out in the next chapter...
> 
> Thank you for all your comments and a big bear-hug to my beta-reader/syntax-angel ETNRL4L for her priceless corrections and suggestions. <3


End file.
